THE     REEF 


THE    REEF 


A   NOVEL 


BY 

EDITH    WHARTON 

AUTHOR  OF 
'THE  HOUSE  OF  MIRTH,"  "ETHAN 


ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
1912 


If 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


BOOK    I 


250651 


THE  REEF 


T  TNEXPECTED  obstacle.  Please  don't  come  till 
|_j  thirtieth.  Anna." 

All  the  way  from  Charing  Cross  to  Dover  the  train 
had  hammered  the  words  of  the  telegram  into  George 
Darrow's  ears,  ringing  every  change  of  irony  on  its 
commonplace  syllables:  rattling  them  out  like  a  dis 
charge  of  musketry,  letting  them,  one  by  one,  drip  slowly 
and  coldly  into  his  brain,  or  shaking,  tossing,  transpos 
ing  them  like  the  dice  in  some  game  of  the  gods  of 
malice ;  and  now,  as  he  emerged  from  his  compartment  at 
the  pier,  and  stood  facing  the  wind-swept  platform  and 
the  angry  sea  beyond,  they  leapt  out  at  him  as  if  from 
the  crest  of  the  waves,  stung  and  blinded  him  with  a 
fresh  fury  of  derision. 

"Unexpected  obstacle.  Please  don't  come  till  thirtieth. 
Anna." 

She  had  put  him  off  at  the  very  last  moment,  and  for 
the  second  time:  put  him  off  with  all  her  sweet  reason 
ableness,  and  for  one  of  her  usual  "good"  reasons — he 


\/.::-*:THE   REEF 


in"  that  thi^*' reason,  like  the  other,  (the  visit  of 
her  husband's  uncle's  widow)  would  be  "good" !  But  it 
was  that  very  certainty  which  chilled  him.  The  fact  of 
her  dealing  so  reasonably  with  their  case  shed  an  ironic 
light  on  the  idea  that  there  had  been  any  exceptional 
warmth  in  the  greeting  she  had  given  him  after  their 
twelve  years  apart. 

They  had  found  each  other  again,  in  London,  some 
three  months  previously,  at  a  dinner  at  the  American 
Embassy,  and  when  she  had  caught  sight  of  him  her 
smile  had  been  like  a  red  rose  pinned  on  her  widow's 
mourning.  He  still  felt  the  throb  of  surprise  with  which, 
among  the  stereotyped  faces  of  the  season's  diners,  he 
had  come  upon  her  unexpected  face,  with  the  dark  hair 
banded  above  grave  eyes;  eyes  in  which  he  had  recog 
nized  every  little  curve  and  shadow  as  he  would  have 
recognized,  after  half  a  life-time,  the  details  of  a  room 
he  had  played  in  as  a  child.  And  as,  in  the  plumed 
starred  crowd,  she  had  stood  out  for  him,  slender,  se 
cluded  and  different,  so  he  had  felt,  the  instant  their 
glances  met,  that  he  as  sharply  detached  himself  for  her. 
All  that  and  more  her  smile  had  said;  had  said  not 
merely  "I  remember,"  but  "I  remember  just  what  you  re 
member";  almost,  indeed,  as  though  her  memory  had 
aided  his,  her  glance  flung  back  on  their  recaptured  mo 
ment  its  morning  brightness.  Certainly,  when  their  dis 
tracted  Ambassadress — with  the  cry:  "Oh,  you  know 
Mrs.  Leath?  That's  perfect,  for  General  Farnham  has 
failed  me" — had  waved  them  together  for  the  march  to 
the  dining-room,  Darrow  had  felt  a  slight  pressure  of  the 
arm  on  his,  a  pressure  faintly  but  unmistakably  empha- 

[2] 


THE     REEF 

sizing  the  exclamation  :  "Isn't  it  wonderful  ? — In  London 
— in  the  season — in  a  mob  ?" 

Little  enough,  on  the  part  of  most  women ;  but  it  was 
a  sign  of  Mrs.  Leath's  quality  that  every  movement,  every 
syllable,  told  with  her.  Even  in  the  old  days,  as  an  intent 
grave-eyed  girl,  she  had  seldom  misplaced  her  light 
strokes;  and  Darrow,  on  meeting  her  again,  had  im 
mediately  felt  how  much  finer  and  surer  an  instrument 
of  expression  she  had  become. 

Their  evening  together  had  been  a  long  confirmation 
of  this  feeling.  She  had  talked  to  him,  shyly  yet  frankly, 
of  what  had  happened  to  her  during  the  years  when  they 
had  so  strangely  failed  to  meet.  She  had  told  him  of  her 
marriage  to  Eraser  Leath,  and  of  her  subsequent  life  in 
France,  where  her  husband's  mother,  left  a  widow  in  his 
youth,  had  been  re-married  to  the  Marquis  de  Chantelle, 
and  where,  partly  in  consequence  of  this  second  union, 
the  son  had  permanently  settled  himself.  She  had  spoken 
also,  with  an  intense  eagerness  of  affection,  of  her  lit 
tle  girl  Effie,  who  was  now  nine  years  old,  and,  in  a  strain 
hardly  less  tender,  of  Owen  Leath,  the  charming  clever 
young  step-son  whom  her  husband's  death  had  left  to  her 
care  ...  « 

A  porter,  stumbling  against  Darrow's  bags,  roused  him 
to  the  fact  that  he  still  obstructed  the  platform,  inert  and 
encumbering  as  his  luggage. 

"Crossing,  sir?" 

Was  he  crossing  ?  He  really  didn't  know ;  but  for  lack 
of  any  more  compelling  impulse  he  followed  the  porter 
to  the  luggage  van,  singled  out  his  property,  and  turned 

[3] 


THE     REEF 

to  march  behind  it  down  the  gang-way.  As  the  fierce 
wind  shouldered  him,  building  up  a  crystal  wall  against 
his  efforts,  he  felt  anew  the  derision  of  his  case. 

"Nasty  weather  to  cross,  sir,"  the  porter  threw  back 
at  him  as  they  beat  their  way  down  the  narrow  walk 
to  the  pier.  Nasty  weather,  indeed ;  but  luckily,  as  it  had 
turned  out,  there  was  no  earthly  reason  why  Darrow 
should  cross. 

While  he  pushed  on  in  the  wake  of  his  luggage  his 
thoughts  slipped  back  into  the  old  groove.  He  had  once 
or  twice  run  across  the  man  whom  Anna  Summers  had 
preferred  to  him,  and  since  he  had  met  her  again  he  had 
been  exercising  his  imagination  on  the  picture  of  what 
her  married  life  must  have  been.  Her  husband  had 
struck  him  as  a  characteristic  specimen  of  the  kind  of 
American  as  to  whom  one  is  not  quite  clear  whether  he 
lives  in  Europe  in  order  to  cultivate  an  art,  or  cultivates 
an  art  as  a  pretext  for  living  in  Europe.  Mr.  Leath's 
art  was  water-colour  painting,  but  he  practised  it  fur 
tively,  almost  clandestinely,  with  the  disdain  of  a  man 
of  the  world  for  anything  bordering  on  the  professional, 
while  he  devoted  himself  more  openly,  and  with  religious 
seriousness,  to  the  collection  of  enamelled  snuff-boxes. 
He  was  blond  and  well-dressed,  with  the  physical  distinc 
tion  that  comes  from  having  a  straight  figure,  a  thin  nose, 
and  the  habit  of  looking  slightly  disgusted — as  who 
should  not,  in  a  world  where  authentic  snuff-boxes  were 
growing  daily  harder  to  find,  and  the  market  was  flooded 
with  flagrant  forgeries? 

Darrow  had  often  wondered  what  possibilities  of  com 
munion  there  could  have  been  between  Mr.  Leath  and 

[4] 


THE     REEF 

his  wife.  Now  he  concluded  that  there  had  probably 
been  none.  Mrs.  Leath's  words  gave  no  hint  of  her  hus 
band's  having  failed  to  justify  her  choice;  but  her  very 
reticence  betrayed  her.  She  spoke  of  him  with  a  kind 
of  impersonal  seriousness,  as  if  he  had  been  a  character 
in  a  novel  or  a  figure  in  history;  and  what  she  said 
sounded  as  though  it  had  been  learned  by  heart  and 
slightly  dulled  by  repetition.  This  fact  immensely  in 
creased  Darrow's  impression  that  his  meeting  with  her 
had  annihilated  the  intervening  years.  She,  who  was 
always  so  elusive  and  inaccessible,  had  grown  suddenly 
communicative  and  kind:  had  opened  the  doors  of  her 
past,  and  tacitly  left  him  to  draw  his  own  conclusions. 
As  a  result,  he  had  taken  leave  of  her  with  the  sense  that 
he  was  a  being  singled  out  and  privileged,  to  whom  she 
had  entrusted  something  precious  to  keep.  It  was  her 
happiness  in  their  meeting  that  she  had  given  him,  had 
frankly  left  him  to  do  with  as  he  willed;  and  the  frank 
ness  of  the  gesture  doubled  the  beauty  of  the  gift. 

Their  next  meeting  had  prolonged  and  deepened  the 
impression.  They  had  found  each  other  again,  a  few 
days  later,  in  an  old  country  house  full  of  books  and  pic 
tures,  in  the  soft  landscape  of  southern  England.  The 
presence  of  a  large  party,  with  all  its  aimless  and  agi 
tated  displacements,  had  served  only  to  isolate  the  pair 
and  give  them  (at  least  to  the  young  man's  fancy)  a 
deeper  feeling  of  communion,  and  their  days  there  had 
been  like  some  musical  prelude,  where  the  instruments, 
breathing  low,  seem  to  hold  back  the  waves  of  sound  that 
press  against  them. 

Mrs.  Leath,  on  this  occasion,  was  no  less  kind  than  be- 

[5] 


THE     REEF 

fore;  but  she  contrived  to  make  him  understand  that 
what  was  so  inevitably  coming  was  not  to  come  too  soon. 
It  was  not  that  she  showed  any  hesitation  as  to  the  issue, 
but  rather  that  she  seemed  to  wish  not  to  miss  any  stage 
in  the  gradual  reflowering  of  their  intimacy. 

Darrow,  for  his  part,  was  content  to  wait  if  she  wished 
it.  He  remembered  that  once,  in  America,  when  she 
was  a  girl,  and  he  had  gone  to  stay  with  her  family  in 
the  country,  she  had  been  out  when  he  arrived,  and  her 
mother  had  told  him  to  look  for  her  in  the  garden.  She 
was  not  in  the  garden,  but  beyond  it  he  had  seen  her 
approaching  down  a  long  shady  path.  Without  hasten 
ing  her  step  she  had  smiled -atldsigned  to  him  to  wait; 
and  charmed  by  the  lights  and  shacft^js^iStt:  played  upon 
her  as  she  moved,  and  by  the  pleasure^! watching,  her^ 
slow  advance  toward  him,  he  had  obeye^fc|  and  stooa 
still.  And  so  she  seemed  now  to  be  wajking-  to  him 
down  the  years,  the  light  and  shade  of  old  memories  and 
new  hopes  playing  variously  on  her,  and  each  step  giv 
ing  him  the  vision  of  a  different  grace.  She  did  not 
waver  or  turn  aside;  he  knew  she  would  come  straight 
to  where  he  stood;  but  something  in  her  eyes  said 
"Wait",  and  again  he  obeyed  and  waited. 

On  the  fourth  day  an  unexpected  event  threw  out  his 
calculations.  Summoned  to  town  by  the  arrival  in  Eng 
land  of  her  husband's  mother,  she  left  without  giving 
Darrow  the  chance  he  had  counted  on,  and  he  cursed 
himself  for  a  dilatory  blunderer.  Still,  his  disappoint 
ment  was  tempered  by  the  certainty  of  being  with  her 
again  before  she  left  for  France;  and  they  did  in  fact 
see  each  other  in  London.  There,  however,  the  at- 

[6] 


THE     REEF 

mosphere  had  changed  with  the  conditions.  He  could 
not  say  that  she  avoided  him,  or  even  that  she  was  a 
shade  less  glad  to  see  him ;  but  she  was  beset  by  family 
duties  and,  as  he  thought,  a  little  too  readily  resigned  to 
them. 

The  Marquise  de  Chantelle,  as  Dar,row  soon  perceived, 
had  the  same  mild  formidableness  as  the  late  Mr.  Leath : 
a  sort  of  insistent  self-effacement  before  which  every 
one  about  her  gave  way.  It  was  perhaps  the  shadow 
of  this  lady's  presence — pervasive  even  during  her  actual 
brief  eclipses — that  subdued  and  silenced  Mrs.  Leath. 
The  latter  was,  moreover,  preoccupied  about  her  step 
son,  who,  soon  after  receiving  his  degree  at  Harvard,  had 
been  rescued  from  a  stormy  love-affair,  and  finally,  after 
some  months  of  troubled  drifting,  had  yielded  to  his  step 
mother's  counsel  and  gone  up  to  Oxford  for  a  year  of 
supplementary  study.  Thither  Mrs.  Leath  went  once  or 
twice  to  visit  him,  and  her  remaining  days  were  packed 
-vith  family  obligations :  getting,  as  she  phrased  it, 
•'frocks  and  governesses"  for  her  little  girl,  who  had  been 
left  in  France,  and  having  to  devote  the  remaining  hours 
to  long  shopping  expeditions  with  her  mother-in-law. 
Nevertheless,  during  her  brief  escapes  from  duty,  Dar- 
row  had  had  time  to  feel  her  safe  in  the  custody  of  his 
devotion,  set  apart  for  some  inevitable  hour;  and  the 
last  evening,  at  the  theatre,  between  the  overshadowing 
Marquise  and  the  unsuspicious  Owen,  they  had  had  an 
almost  decisive  exchange  of  words. 

Now,  in  the  rattle  of  the  wind  about  his  ears,  Darrow 
continued  to  hear  the  mocking  echo  of  her  message: 
"Unexpected  obstacle."  In  such  an  existence  as  Mrs. 

[7] 


THE     REEF 

Leath's,  at  once  so  ordered  and  so  exposed,  he  knew  how 
small  a  complication  might  assume  the  magnitude  of  an 
"obstacle ;"  yet,  even  allowing  as  impartially  as  his 
state  of  mind  permitted  for  the  fact  that,  with  her 
mother-in-law  always,  and  her  stepson  intermittently, 
under  her  roof,  her  lot  involved  a  hundred  small  accom 
modations  generally  foreign  to  the  freedom  of  widow 
hood — even  so,  he  could  net  but  think  that  the  very 
ingenuity  bred  of  such  conditions  might  have  helped  her 
to  find  a  way  out  of  them.  No,  her  "reason",  what 
ever  it  was,  could,  in  this  case,  be  nothing  but  a  pretext ; 
unless  he  leaned  to  the  less  flattering  alternative  that 
any  reason  seemed  good  enough  for  postponing  him ! 
Certainly,  if  her  welcome  had  meant  what  he  imagined, 
she  could  not,  for  the  second  time  within  a  few  weeks, 
have  submitted  so  tamely  to  the  disarrangement  of  their 
plans;  a  disarrangement  which — his  official  duties  con 
sidered — might,  for  all  she  knew,  result  in  his  not  being 
able  to  go  to  her  for  months. 

"Please  don't  come  till  thirtieth."  The  thirtieth— and 
it  was  now  the  fifteenth!  She  flung  back  the  fortnight 
on  his  hands  as  if  he  had  been  an  idler  indifferent  to 
dates,  instead  of  an  active  young  diplomatist  who,  to 
respond  to  her  call,  had  had  to  hew  his  way  through  a 
very  jungle  of  engagements!  "Please  don't  come  till 
thirtieth."  That  was  all.  Not  the  shadow  of  an  excuse 
or  a  regret;  not  even  the  perfunctory  "have  written" 
with  which  it  is  usual  to  soften  such  blows.  She  didn't 
want  him,  and  had  taken  the  shortest  way  to  tell  him  so. 
Even  in  his  first  moment  of  exasperation  it  struck  him 
as  characteristic  that  she  should  not  have  padded  her 

[8] 


THE     REEF 

postponement  with  a  fib.  Certainly  her  moral  angles 
were  not  draped! 

"If  1  asked  her  to  marry  me,  she'd  have  refused  in 
the  same  language.  But  thank  heaven  I  haven't!"  he 
reflected. 

These  considerations,  which  had  been  with  him  every 
yard  of  the  way  from  London,  reached  a  climax  of  irony 
as  he  was  drawn  into  the  crowd  on  the  pier.  It  did  not 
soften  his  feelings  to  remember  that,  but  for  her  lack 
of  forethought,  he  might,  at  this  harsh  end  of  the  stormy 
May  day,  have  been  sitting  before  his  club  fire  in  Lon 
don  instead  of  shivering  in  the  damp  human  herd  on  the 
pier.  Admitting  the  sex's  traditional  right  to  change, 
she  might  at  least  have  advised  him  of  hers  by  tele 
graphing  directly  to  his  rooms.  But  in  spite  of  their 
exchange  of  letters  she  had  apparently  failed  to  note 
his  address,  and  a  breathless  emissary  had  rushed  from 
the  Embassy  to  pitch  her  telegram  into  his  compartment 
as  the  train  was  moving  from  the  station. 

Yes,  he  had  given  her  chance  enough  to  learn  where 
he  lived;  and  this  minor  proof  of  her  indifference  be 
came,  as  he  jammed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  the 
rriain  point  of  his  grievance  against  her  and  of  his  de 
rision  of  himself.  Half  way  down  the  pier  the  prod  of 
an  umbrella  increased  his  exasperation  by  rousing  him 
to  the  fact  that  it  was  raining.  Instantly  the  narrow 
ledge  became  a  battle-ground  of  thrusting,  slanting,  par 
rying  domes.  The  wind  rose  with  the  rain,  and  the 
harried  wretches  exposed  to  this  double  assault  wreaked 
on  their  neighbours  the  vengeance  they  could  not  take 
on  the  elements. 

[9] 


THE     REEF 

Darrow,  whose  healthy  enjoyment  of  life  made  him  in 
general  a  good  traveller,  tolerant  of  agglutinated  human 
ity,  felt  himself  obscurely  outraged  by  these  promiscuous 
contacts.  It  was  as  though  all  the  people  about  him  had 
taken  his  measure  and  known  his  plight;  as  though  they 
were  contemptuously  bumping  and  shoving  him  like  the 
inconsiderable  thing  he  had  become.  "She  doesn't  want 
you,  doesn't  want  you,  doesn't  want  you,"  their  umbrel 
las  and  their  elbows  seemed  to  say. 

He  had  rashly  vowed,  when  the  telegram  was  flung 
into  his  window :  "At  any  rate  I  won't  turn  back" — as 
though  it  might  cause  the  sender  a  malicious  joy  to  have 
him  retrace  his  steps  rather  than  keep  on  to  Paris !  Now 
he  perceived  the  absurdity  of  the  vow,  and  thanked  his 
stars  that  he  need  not  plunge,  to  no  purpose,  into  the 
fury  of  waves  outside  the  harbour. 

With  this  thought  in  his  mind  he  turned  back  to  look 
for  his  porter;  but  the  contiguity  of  dripping  umbrellas 
made  signalling  impossible  and,  perceiving  that  he  had 
lost  sight  of  the  man,  he  scrambled  up  again  to  the  plat 
form.  As  he  reached  it,  a  descending  umbrella  caught 
him  in  the  collar-bone;  and  the  next  moment,  bent  side 
ways  by  the  wind,  it  turned  inside  out  and  soared  up, 
kite-wise,  at  the  end  of  a  helpless  female  arm. 

Darrow  caught  the  umbrella,  lowered  its  inverted  ribs, 
and  looked  up  at  the  face  it  exposed  to  him. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said ;  "you  can't  stay  here." 

As  he  spoke,  a  surge  of  the  crowd  drove  the  owner  of 
the  umbrella  abruptly  down  on  him.  Darrow  steadied 
her  with  extended  arms,  and  regaining  her  footing  she 
cried  out :  "Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear !  It's  in  ribbons !" 

[10] 


THE     REEF 

Her  lifted  face,  fresh  and  flushed  in  the  driving  rain, 
woke  in  him  a  memory  of  having  seen  it  at  a  distant  time 
and  in  a  vaguely  unsympathetic  setting;  but  it  was  no 
moment  to  follow  up  such  clues,  and  the  face  was  ob 
viously  one  to  make  its  way  on  its  own  merits. 

Its  possessor  had  dropped  her  bag  and  bundles  to 
clutch  at  the  tattered  umbrella.  "I  bought  it  only  yes 
terday  at  the  Stores;  and — yes — it's  utterly  done  for!" 
she  lamented. 

Darrow  smiled  at  the  intensity  of  her  distress.  It  was 
food  for  the  moralist  that,  side  by  side  with  such  catas 
trophes  as  his,  human  nature  was  still  agitating  itself 
over  its  microscopic  woes ! 

"Here's  mine  if  you  want  it!"  he  shouted  back  at  her 
through  the  shouting  of  the  gale. 

The  offer  caused  the  young  lady  to  look  at  him  more 
intently.  "Why,  it's  Mr.  Darrow!"  she  exclaimed;  and 
then,  all  radiant  recognition :  "Oh,  thank  you !  We'll 
share  it,  if  you  will." 

She  knew  him,  then;  and  he  knew  her;  but  how  and 
where  had  they  met?  He  put  aside  the  problem  for 
subsequent  solution,  and  drawing  her  into  a  more  shel 
tered  corner,  bade  her  wait  till  he  could  find  his  porter. 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  came  back  with  his  re 
covered  property,  and  the  news  that  the  boat  would  not 
leave  till  the  tide  had  turned,  she  showed  no  concern. 

"Not  for  two  hours?  How  lucky — then  I  can  find  my 
trunk!" 

Ordinarily  Darrow  would  have  felt  little  disposed  to 
involve  himself  in  the  adventure  of  a  young  female  who 
had  lost  her  trunk;  but  at  the  moment  he  was  glad 
2  [II] 


THE     REEF 

of  any  pretext  for  activity.  Even  should  he  decide  to 
take  the  next  up  train  from  Dover  he  still  had  a  yawning 
hour  to  fill ;  and  the  obvious  remedy  was  to  devote  it  to 
the  loveliness  in  distress  under  his  umbrella. 

"You've  lost  a  trunk?  Let  me  see  if  I  can  find  it." 
It  pleased  him  that  she  did  not  return  the  conventional 
"Oh,  would  you?"  Instead,  she  corrected  him  with  a 
laugh — "Not  a  trunk,  but  my  trunk ;  I've  no  other — "  and 
then  added  briskly:  "You'd  better  first  see  to  getting 
your  own  things  on  the  boat." 

This  made  him  answer,  as  if  to  give  substance  to  his 
plans  by  discussing  them:  "I  don't  actually  know  that 
I'm  going  over." 
"Not  going  over?" 

"Well . . .  perhaps  not  by  this  boat."  Again  he  felt 
a  stealing  indecision.  "I  may  probably  have  to  go  back 
to  London.  I'm — I'm  waiting  .  .  .  expecting  a  letter 
(She'll  think  me  a  defaulter,"  he  reflected.) 
"But  meanwhile  there's  plenty  of  time  to  find  your 
trunk." 

He  picked  up  his  companion's  bundles,  and  offered 
her  an  arm  which  enabled  her  to  press  her  slight  per 
son  more  closely  under  his  umbrella ;  and  as,  thus  linked, 
they  beat  their  way  back  to  the  platform,  pulled  together 
and  apart  like  marionettes  on  the  wires  of  the  wind,  he 
continued  to  wonder  where  he  could  have  seen  her.  He 
had  immediately  classed  her  as  a  compatriot;  her  small 
nose,  her  clear  tints,  a  kind  of  sketchy  delicacy  in  her 
face,  as  though  she  had  been  brightly  but  lightly  washed 
in  with  water-colour,  all  confirmed  the  evidence  of  her 
high  sweet  voice  and  of  her  quick  incessant  gestures. 

[12] 


THE     REEF 

She  was  clearly  an  American,  but  with  the  loose  native 
quality  strained  through  a  closer  woof  of  manners :  the 
composite  product  of  an  enquiring  and  adaptable  race. 
All  this,  however,  did  not  help  him  to  fit  a  name  to  her, 
for  just  such  instances  were  perpetually  pouring  through 
the  London  Embassy,  and  the  etched  and  angular  Ameri 
can  was  becoming  rarer  than  the  fluid  type. 

More  puzzling  than  the  fact  of  his  being  unable  to 
identify  her  was  the  persistent  sense  connecting  her  with 
something  uncomfortable  and  distasteful.  So  pleasant  a 
vision  as  that  gleaming  up  at  him  between  wet  brown  hair 
and  wet  brown  boa  should  have  evoked  only  associa 
tions  as  pleasing;  but  each  effort  to  fit  her  image  into 
his  past  resulted  in  the  same  memories  of  boredom  and 
a  vague  discomfort  .  .  . 


II 


DON'T  you  remember  me  now — at  Mrs.  Mur- 
rett's?" 

She  threw  the  question  at  Darrow  across  a  table  of 
the  quiet  coffee-room  to  which,  after  a  vainly  prolonged 
quest  for  her  trunk,  he  had  suggested  taking  her  for  a 
cup  of  tea. 

In  this  musty  retreat  she  had  removed  her  dripping 
hat,  hung  it  on  the  fender  to  dry,  and  stretched  herself 
on  tiptoe  in  front  of  the  round  eagle-crowned  mirror, 
above  the  mantel  vases  of  dyed  immortelles,  while  she 
ran  her  fingers  comb-wise  through  her  hair.  The  ges 
ture  had  acted  on  Darrow's  numb  feelings  as  the  glow 


THE     REEF 

of  the  fire  acted  on  his  circulation;  and  when  he  had 
asked :  "Aren't  your  feet  wet,  too  ?"  and,  after  frank  in 
spection  of  a  stout-shod  sole,  she  had  answered  cheer 
fully  :  "No — luckily  I  had  on  my  new  boots,"  he  began  to 
feel  that  human  intercourse  would  still  be  tolerable  if  it 
were  always  as  free  from  formality. 

The  removal  of  his  companion's  hat,  besides  provoking 
this  reflection,  gave  him  his  first  full  sight  of  her  face; 
and  this  was  so  favourable  that  the  name  she  now  pro 
nounced  fell  on  him  with  a  quite  disproportionate  shock 
of  dismay. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Murrett's— was  it  there?" 

He  remembered  her  now,  of  course:  remembered  her 
as  one  of  the  shadowy  sidling  presences  in  the  back 
ground  of  that  awful  house  in  Chelsea,  one  of  the  dumb 
appendages  of  the  shrieking  unescapable  Mrs.  Murrett, 
into  whose  talons  he  had  fallen  in  the  course  of  his  head 
long  pursuit  of  Lady  Ulrica  Crispin.  Oh,  the  taste  of 
stale  follies !  How  insipid  it  was,  yet  how  it  clung ! 

"I  used  to  pass  you  on  the  stairs,"  she  reminded  him. 

Yes:  he  had  seen  her  slip  by — he  recalled  it  now — as 
he  dashed  up  to  the  drawing-room  in  quest  of  Lady  Ul 
rica.  The  thought  made  him  steal  a  longer  look.  How 
could  such  a  face  have  been  merged  in  the  Murrett  mob? 
Its  fugitive  slanting  lines,  that  lent  themselves  to  all  man 
ner  of  tender  tilts  and  foreshortenings,  had  the  freakish 
grace  of  some  young  head  of  the  Italian  comedy.  The 
hair  stood  up  from  her  forehead  in  a  boyish  elf-lock,  and 
its  colour  matched  her  auburn  eyes  flecked  with  black, 
and  the  little  brown  spot  on  her  cheek,  between  the  ear 
that  was  meant  to  have  a  rose  behind  it  and  the  chin  that 


r 


THE     REEF 

should  have  rested  on  a  ruff.  When  she  smiled,  the  left 
corner  of  her  mouth  went  up  a  little  higher  than  the 
right;  and  her  smile  began  in  her  eyes  and  ran  down  to 
her  lips  in  two  lines  of  light.  He  had  dashed  past  that  to 
reach  Lady  Ulrica  Crispin! 

"But  of  course  you  wouldn't  remember  me,"  she  was 
saying.  "My  name  is  Viner — Sophy  Viner." 

Not  remember  her?  But  of  course  he  did!  He  was 
genuinely  sure  of  it  now.  "You're  Mrs.  Murrett's  niece/' 
he  declared. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No ;  not  even  that.  Only  her 
reader." 

"Her  reader  ?    Do  you  mean  to  say  she  ever  reads  ?" 

Miss  Viner  enjoyed  his  wonder.  "Dear,  no!  But  I 
wrote  notes,  and  made  up  the  visiting-book,  and  walked 
the  dogs,  and  saw  bores  for  her." 

Darrow  groaned.    "That  must  have  been  rather  bad !" 

"Yes ;  but  nothing  like  as  bad  as  being  her  niece." 

"That  I  can  well  believe.  I'm  glad  to  hear,"  he  added, 
"that  you  put  it  all  in  the  past  tense." 

She  seemed  to  droop  a  little  at  the  allusion;  then  she 
lifted  her  chin  with  a  jerk  of  defiance.  "Yes.  All  is  at 
an  end  between  us.  We've  just  parted  in  tears — but  not 
in  silence !" 

"Just  parted?  Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  been  there 
all  this  time  ?" 

"Ever  since  you  used  to  come  there  to  see  Lady  Ul 
rica?  Does  it  seem  to  you  so  awfully  long  ago?" 

The  unexpectedness  of  the  thrust — as  well  as  its  doubt 
ful  taste — chilled  his  growing  enjoyment  of  her  chatter. 
He  had  really  been  getting  to  like  her — had  recovered, 

[15] 


THE     REEF 

under  the  candid  approval  of  her  eye,  his  usual  sense  of 
being  a  personable  young  man,  with  all  the  privileges  per 
taining  to  the  state,  instead  of  the  anonymous  rag  of 
humanity  he  had  felt  himself  in  the  crowd  on  the  pier. 
It  annoyed  him,  at  that  particular  moment,  to  be  reminded 
that  naturalness  is  not  always  consonant  with  taste. 

She  seemed  to  guess  his  thought.  "You  don't  like  my 
saying  that  you  came  for  Lady  Ulrica  ?"  she  asked,  lean 
ing  over  the  table  to  pour  herself  a  second  cup  of  tea. 

He  liked  her  quickness,  at  any  rate.  "It's  better,"  he 
laughed,  "than  your  thinking  I  came  for  Mrs.  Murrett !" 

"Oh,  we  never  thought  anybody  came  for  Mrs.  Mur 
rett  !  It  was  always  for  something  else :  the  music,  or  the 
cook — when  there  was  a  good  one — or  the  other  people ; 
generally  one  of  the  other  people." 

"I  see." 

She  was  amusing,  and  that,  in  his  present  mood,  was 
more  to  his  purpose  than  the  exact  shade  of  her  taste. 
It  was  odd,  too,  to  discover  suddenly  that  the  blurred 
tapestry  of  Mrs.  Murrett's  background  had  all  the  while 
been  alive  and  full  of  eyes.  Now,  with  a  pair  of  them 
looking  into  his,  he  was  conscious  of  a  queer  reversal 
of  perspective. 

"Who  were  the  'we'  ?    Were  you  a  cloud  of  witnesses  ?" 

"There  were  a  good  many  of  us."  She  smiled.  "Let  me 
see — who  was  there  in  your  time?  Mrs.  Bolt — and 
Mademoiselle — and  Professor  Didymus  and  the  Polish 
Countess.  Don't  you  remember  the  Polish  Countess? 
She  crystal-gazed,  and  played  accompaniments,  and  Mrs. 
Murrett  chucked  her  because  Mrs.  Didymus  accused  her 
of  hypnotizing  the  Professor.  But  of  course  you  don't 

[16] 


THE     REEF 

remember.  We  were  all  invisible  to  you;  but  we  could 
see.  And  we  all  used  to  wonder  about  you " 

Again  Darrow  felt  a  redness  in  the  temples.  "What 
about  me?" 

"Well — whether  it  was  you  or  she  who  .  .  . " 

He  winced,  but  hid  his  disapproval.  It  made  the  time 
pass  to  listen  to  her. 

"And  what,  if  one  may  ask,  was  your  conclusion?" 

"Well,  Mrs.  Bolt  and  Mademoiselle  and  the  Countess 
naturally  thought  it  was  she;  but  Professor  Didymus  and 
Jimmy  Brance — especially  Jimmy " 

"Just  a  moment :  who  on  earth  is  Jimmy  Brance  ?" 

She  exclaimed  in  wonder :  "You  were  absorbed — not  to 
remember  Jimmy  Brance!  He  must  have  been  right 
about  you,  after  all."  She  let  her  amused  scrutiny  dwell 
on  him.  "But  how  could  you  ?  She  was  false  from  head 
to  foot !" 

"False ?"  In  spite  of  time  and  satiety,  the  male 

instinct  of  ownership  rose  up  and  repudiated  the  charge. 

Miss  Viner  caught  his  look  and  laughed.  "Oh,  I  only 
meant  externally !  You  see,  she  often  used  to  come  to  my 
room  after  tennis,  or  to  touch  up  in  the  evenings,  when 
they  were  going  on ;  and  I  assure  you  she  took  apart  like 
a  puzzle.  In  fact  I  used  to  say  to  Jimmy — just  to  make 
him  wild — :  Til  bet  you  anything  you  like  there's  noth 
ing  wrong,  because  I  know  she'd  never  dare  un — ' " 
She  broke  the  word  in  two,  and  her  quick  blush  made 
her  face  like  a  shallow-petalled  rose  shading  to  the 
deeper  pink  of  the  centre. 

The  situation  was  caved,  for  Darrow,  by  an  abrupt 
rush  of  memories,  and  he  gave  way  to  a  mirth  which 

[17] 


THE     REEF 

she  as  frankly  echoed.     "Of  course,"  she  gasped  through 
her  laughter,  "I  only  said  it  to  tease  Jimmy " 

Her  amusement  obscurely  annoyed  him.  "Oh,  you're 
all  alike!"  he  exclaimed,  moved  by  an  unaccountable 
sense  of  disappointment. 

She  caught  him  up  in  a  flash — she  didn't  miss  things ! 
"You  say  that  because  you  think  I'm  spiteful  and  envious  ? 
Yes — I  was  envious  of  Lady  Ulrica  .  .  .  Oh,  not  on 
account  of  you  or  Jimmy  Brance!  Simply  because  she 
had  almost  all  the  things  I've  always  wanted :  clothes  and 
fun  and  motors,  and  admiration  and  yachting  and  Paris — 
why,  Paris  alone  would  be  enough ! —  And  how  do  you 
suppose  a  girl  can  see  that  sort  of  thing  about  her  day 
after  day,  and  never  wonder  why  some  women,  who 
don't  seem  to  have  any  more  right  to  it,  have  it  all  tum 
bled  into  their  laps,  while  others  are  writing  dinner  invi 
tations,  and  straightening  out  accounts,  and  copying 
visiting  lists,  and  finishing  golf-stockings,  and  matching 
ribbons,  and  seeing  that  the  dogs  get  their  sulphur  ?  One 
looks  in  one's  glass,  after  all !" 

She  launched  the  closing  words  at  him  on  a  cry  that 
lifted  them  above  the  petulance  of  vanity;  but  his  sense 
of  her  words  was  lost  in  the  surprise  of  her  face.  Under 
the  flying  clouds  of  her  excitement  it  was  no  longer  a 
shallow  flower-cup  but  a  darkening  gleaming  mirror  that 
might  give  back  strange  depths  of  feeling.  The  girl  had 
stuff  in  her — he  saw  it;  and  she  seemed  to  catch  the 
perception  in  his  eyes. 

"That's  the  kind  of  education  I  got  at  Mrs.  Murrett's — 
and  I  never  had  any  other,"  she  said  with  a  shrug. 

"Good  Lord — were  you  there  so  long?" 
[18] 


THE     REEF 

"Five  years.  I  stuck  it  out  longer  than  any  of  the 
others."  She  spoke  as  though  it  were  something  to 
be  proud  of. 

"Well,  thank  God  you're  out  of  it  now !" 

Again  a  just  perceptible  shadow  crossed  her  face. 
"Yes — I'm  out  of  it  now  fast  enough." 

"And  what — if  I  may  ask — are  you  doing  next?" 

She  brooded  a  moment  behind  drooped  lids ;  then,  with 
a  touch  of  hauteur :  "I'm  going  to  Paris :  to  study  for  the 
stage." 

"The  stage?"  Darrow  stared  at  her,  dismayed.  All 
his  confused  contradictory  impressions  assumed  a  new 
aspect  at  this  announcement;  and  to  hide  his  surprise 
he  added  lightly:  "Ah — then  you  will  have  Paris,  after 
all !" 

"Hardly  Lady  Ulrica's  Paris.  It's  not  likely  to  be 
roses,  roses  all  the  way." 

"It's  not,  indeed."  Real  compassion  prompted  him  to 
continue:  "Have  you  any — any  influence  you  can  count 
on?" 

She  gave  a  somewhat  flippant  little  laugh.  "None  but 
my  own.  I've  never  had  any  other  to  count  on." 

He  passed  over  the  obvious  reply.  "But  have  you  any 
idea  how  the  profession  is  over-crowded?  I  know  I'm 
trite " 

"I've  a  very  clear  idea.  But  I  couldn't  go  on  as  I 
was." 

"Of  course  not.  But  since,  as  you  say,  you'd  stuck  k 
out  longer  than  any  of  the  others,  couldn't  you  at  least 
have  held  on  till  you  were  sure  of  some  kind  of  an 


opening?" 


[19] 


THE     REEF 

She  made  no  reply  for  a  moment;  then  she  turned  a 
listless  glance  to  the  rain-beaten  window.  "Oughtn't 
we  be  starting?"  she  asked,  with  a  lofty  assumption  of 
indifference  that  might  have  been  Lady  Ulrica's. 

Darrow,  surprised  by  the  change,  but  accepting  her 
rebuff  as  a  phase  of  what  he  guessed  to  be  a  confused 
and  tormented  mood,  rose  from  his  seat  and  lifted  her 
jacket  from  the  chair-back  on  which  she  had  hung  it  to 
dry.  As  he  held  it  toward  her  she  looked  up  at  him 
quickly. 

"The  truth  is,  we  quarrelled,"  she  broke  out,  "and  I 
left  last  night  without  my  dinner — and  without  my 
salary." 

"Ah — "  he  groaned,  with  a  sharp  perception  of  all  the 
sordid  dangers  that  might  attend  such  a  break  with  Mrs. 
Murrett. 

"And  without  a  character !"  she  added,  as  she  slipped 
her  arms  into  the  jacket.  "And  without  a  trunk,  as  it 
appears — but  didn't  you  say  that,  before  going,  there'd 
be  time  for  another  look  at  the  station  ?" 

There  was  time  for  another  look  at  the  station ;  but  the 
look  again  resulted  in  disappointment,  since  her  trunk  was 
nowhere  to  be  found  in  the  huge  heap  disgorged  by  the 
newly-arrived  London  express.  The  fact  caused  Miss 
Viner  a  moment's  perturbation;  but  she  promptly  ad 
justed  herself  to  the  necessity  of  proceeding  on  her  jour 
ney,  and  her  decision  confirmed  Darrow's  vague  resolve 
to  go  to  Paris  instead  of  retracing  his  way  to  London. 

Miss  Viner  seemed  cheered  at  the  prospect  of  his  com 
pany,  and  sustained  by  his  offer  to  telegraph  to  Charing 
Cross  for  the  missing  trunk;  and  he  left  her  to  wait  in 

F20l 


THE     REEF 

the  fly  while  he  hastened  back  to  the  telegraph  office. 
The  enquiry  despatched,  he  was  turning  away  from  the 
desk  when  another  thought  struck  him  and  he  went  back 
and  indited  a  message  to  his  servant  in  London:  "If 
any  letters  with  French  post-mark  received  since  depar 
ture  forward  immediately  to  Terminus  Hotel  Gare  du 
Nord  Paris." 

Then   he   rejoined   Miss  Viner,   and   they   drove  off 
through  the  rain  to  the  pier. 


Ill 


ALMOST  as  soon  as  the  train  left  Calais  her  head 
had  dropped  back  into  the  corner,  and  she  had 
fallen  asleep. 

Sitting  opposite,  in  the  compartment  from  which  he 
had  contrived  to  have  other  travellers  excluded,  Darrow 
looked  at  her  curiously.  He  had  never  seen  a  face  that 
changed  so  quickly.  A  moment  since  it  had  danced  like  a 
field  of  daisies  in  a  summer  breeze ;  now,  under  the  pallid 
oscillating  light  of  the  lamp  overhead,  it  wore  the  hard 
stamp  of  experience,  as  of  a  soft  thing  chilled  into  shape 
before  its  curves  had  rounded :  and  it  moved  him  to  see 
that  care  already  stole  upon  her  when  she  slept. 

The  story  she  had  imparted  to  him  in  the  wheez 
ing  shaking  cabin,  and  at  the  Calais  buffet — where  he  had 
insisted  on  offering  her  the  dinner  she  had  missed  at  Mrs. 
Murrett's — had  given  a  distincter  outline  to  her  figure. 
From  the  moment  of  entering  the  New  York  boarding- 
school  to  which  a  preoccupied  guardian  had  hastily  con- 


THE     REEF 

signed  her  after  the  death  of  her  parents,  she  had  found 
herself  alone  in  a  busy  and  indifferent  world.  Her 
youthful  history  might,  in  fact,  have  been  summed  up  in 
the  statement  that  everybody  had  been  too  busy  to  look 
after  her.  Her  guardian,  a  drudge  in  a  big  banking 
house,  was  absorbed  by  "the  office" ;  the  guardian's  wife, 
by  her  health  and  her  religion ;  and  an  elder  sister,  Laura, 
married,  unmarried,  remarried,  and  pursuing,  through  all 
these  alternating  phases,  some  vaguely  "artistic"  ideal  on 
which  the  guardian  and  his  wife  looked  askance,  had  (as 
Darrow  conjectured)  taken  their  disapproval  as  a  pretext 
for  not  troubling  herself  about  poor  Sophy,  to  whom — 
perhaps  for  this  reason — she  had  remained  the  incarna 
tion  of  remote  romantic  possibilities. 

In  the  course  of  time  a  sudden  "stroke"  of  the  guar 
dian's  had  thrown  his  personal  affairs  into  a  state  of  con 
fusion  from  which — after  his  widely  lamented  death — it 
became  evident  that  it  would  not  be  possible  to  extricate 
his  ward's  inheritance.  No  one  deplored  this  more  sin 
cerely  than  his  widow,  who  saw  in  it  one  more  proof  of 
her  husband's  life  having  been  sacrificed  to  the  innumer 
able  duties  imposed  on  him,  and  who  could  hardly — but 
for  the  counsels  of  religion — have  brought  herself  to 
pardon  the  young  girl  for  her  indirect  share  in  hastening 
his  end.  Sophy  did  not  resent  this  point  of  view.  She 
was  really  much  sorrier  for  her  guardian's  death  than  for 
the  loss  of  her  insignificant  fortune.  The  latter  had  rep 
resented  only  the  means  of  holding  her  in  bondage,  and 
its  disappearance  was  the  occasion  of  her  immediate 
plunge  into  the  wide  bright  sea  of  life  surrounding  the 
island  of  her  captivity.  She  had  first  landed — thanks  to 

[22] 


THE     REEF 

the  intervention  of  the  ladies  who  had  directed  her  edu 
cation — in  a  Fifth  Avenue  school- room  where,  for  a  few 
months,  she  acted  as  a  buffer  between  three  autocratic 
infants  and  their  bodyguard  of  nurses  and  teachers.  The 
too-pressing  attentions  of  their  father's  valet  had  caused 
her  to  fly  this  sheltered  spot,  against  the  express  advice  of 
her  educational  superiors,  who  implied  that,  in  their  own 
case,  refinement  and  self-respect  had  always  sufficed  to 
keep  the  most  ungovernable  passions  at  bay.  The  ex 
perience  of  the  guardian's  widow  having  been  precisely 
similar,  and  the  deplorable  precedent  of  Laura's  career 
being  present  to  all  their  minds,  none  of  these  ladies  felt 
any  obligation  to  intervene  farther  in  Sophy's  affairs ;  and 
she  was  accordingly  left  to  her  own  resources. 

A  schoolmate  from  the  Rocky  Mountains,  who  was 
taking  her  father  and  mother  to  Europe,  had  suggested 
Sophy's  accompanying  them,  and  "going  round"  with  her 
while  her  progenitors,  in  the  care  of  the  courier,  nursed 
their  ailments  at  a  fashionable  bath.  Darrow  gathered 
that  the  "going  round"  with  Mamie  Hoke  was  a  varied 
and  diverting  process;  but  this  relatively  brilliant  phase 
of  Sophy's  career  was  cut  short  by  the  elopement 
of  the  inconsiderate  Mamie  with  a  "matinee  idol"  who 
had  followed  her  from  New  York,  and  by  the  precipitate 
return  of  her  parents  to  negotiate  for  the  repurchase  of 
their  child. 

It  was  then — after  an  interval  of  repose  with  compas 
sionate  but  impecunious  American  friends  in  Paris — that 
Miss  Viner  had  been  drawn  into  the  turbid  current  of 
Mrs.  Murrett's  career.  The  impecunious  compatriots 
had  found  Mrs.  Murrett  for  her,  and  it  was  partly  on 

[23] 


THE     REEF 

their  account  (because  they  were  such  dears,  and  so 
unconscious,  poor  confiding  things,  of  what  they  were 
letting  her  in  for)  that  Sophy  had  stuck  it  out  so  long 
in  the  dreadful  house  in  Chelsea.  The  Farlows,  she 
explained  to  Darrow,  were  the  best  friends  she  had  ever 
had  (and  the  only  ones  who  had  ever  "been  decent"  about 
Laura,  whom  they  had  seen  once,  and  intensely  admired) ; 
but  even  after  twenty  years  of  Paris  they  were  the  most 
incorrigibly  inexperienced  angels,  and  quite  persuaded 
that  Mrs.  Murrett  was  a  woman  of  great  intellectual  emi 
nence,  and  the  house  at  Chelsea  "the  last  of  the  salons" — 
Darrow  knew  what  she  meant  ?  And  she  hadn't  liked  to 
undeceive  them,  knowing  that  to  do  so  would  be  vir 
tually  to  throw  herself  back  on  their  hands,  and  feeling, 
moreover,  after  her  previous  experiences,  the  urgent  need 
of  gaining,  at  any  cost,  a  name  for  stability;  besides 
which — she  threw  it  off  with  a  slight  laugh — no  other 
chance,  in  all  these  years,  had  happened  to  come  to  her. 
She  had  brushed  in  this  outline  of  her  career  with 
light  rapid  strokes,  and  in  a  tone  of  fatalism  oddly  un- 
tinged  by  bitterness.  Darrow  perceived  that  she  classi 
fied  people  according  to  their  greater  or  less  "luck"  in 
life,  but  she  appeared  to  harbour  no  resentment  against 
the  undefined  power  which  dispensed  the  gift  in  such  un 
equal  measure.  Things  came  one's  way  or  they  didn't; 
and  meanwhile  one  could  only  look  on,  and  make  the  most 
of  small  compensations,  such  as  watching  "the  show"  at 
Mrs.  Murrett's,  and  talking  over  the  Lady  Ulricas  and 
other  footlight  figures.  And  at  any  moment,  of  course, 
a  turn  of  the  kaleidoscope  might  suddenly  toss  a  bright 
spangle  into  the  grey  pattern  of  one's  days. 

[24] 


THE     REEF 

This  light-hearted  philosophy  was  not  without  charm 
to  a  young  man  accustomed  to  more  traditional  views. 
George  Darrow  had  had  a  fairly  varied  experience  of 
feminine  types,  but  the  women  he  had  frequented  had 
either  been  pronouncedly  "ladies"  or  they  had  not. 
Grateful  to  both  for  ministering  to  the  more  complex 
masculine  nature,  and  disposed  to  assume  that  they  had 
been  evolved,  if  not  designed,  to  that  end,  he  had  instinct 
ively  kept  the  two  groups  apart  in  his  mind,  avoiding 
that  intermediate  society  which  attempts  to  conciliate 
both  theories  of  life.  "Bohemianism"  seemed  to  him  a 
cheaper  convention  than  the  other  two,  and  he  liked, 
above  all,  people  who  went  as  far  as  they  could  in  their 
own  line — liked  his  "ladies"  and  their  rivals  to  be  equally 
unashamed  of  showing  for  exactly  what  they  were.  He 
had  not  indeed — the  fact  of  Lady  Ulrica  was  there  to  re 
mind  him — been  without  his  experience  of  a  third  type; 
but  that  experience  had  left  him  with  a  contemptuous 
distaste  for  the  woman  who  uses  the  privileges  of  one 
class  to  shelter  the  customs  of  another. 

As  to  young  girls,  he  had  never  thought  much  about 
them  since  his  early  love  for  the  girl  who  had  become 
Mrs.  Leath.  That  episode  seemed,  as  he  looked  back  on 
it,  to  bear  no  more  relation  to  reality  than  a  pale  decora 
tive  design  to  the  confused  richness  of  a  summer  land 
scape.  He  no  longer  understood  the  violent  impulses 
and  dreamy  pauses  of  his  own  young  heart,  or  the  in 
scrutable  abandonments  and  reluctances  of  hers.  He  had 
known  a  moment  of  anguish  at  losing  her — the  mad 
plunge  of  youthful  instincts  against  the  barrier  of  fate; 
but  the  first  wave  of  stronger  sensation  had  swept  away 

[25] 


THE     REEF 

all  but  the  outline  of  their  story,  and  the  memory  of  Anna 
Summers  had  made  the  image  of  the  young  girl  sacred, 
but  the  class  uninteresting. 

Such  generalisations  belonged,  however,  to  an  earlier 
stage  of  his  experience.  The  more  he  saw  of  life  the 
more  incalculable  he  found  it;  and  he  had  learned  to 
yield  to  his  impressions  without  feeling  the  youthful  need 
of  relating  them  to  others.  It  was  the  girl  in  the  op 
posite  seat  who  had  roused  in  him  the  dormant  habit  of 
comparison.  She  was  distinguished  from  the  daughters 
of  wealth  by  her  avowed  acquaintance  with  the  real  busi 
ness  of  living,  a  familiarity  as  different  as  possible  from 
their  theoretical  proficiency;  yet  it  seemed  to  Darrow 
that  her  experience  had  made  her  free  without  hardness 
and  self-assured  without  assertiveness. 

The  rush  into  Amiens,  and  the  flash  of  the  station 
lights  into  their  compartment,  broke  Miss  Viner's  sleep, 
and  without  changing  her  position  she  lifted  her  lids  and 
looked  at  Darrow.  There  was  neither  surprise  nor  be 
wilderment  in  the  look.  She  seemed  instantly  conscious, 
not  so  much  of  where  she  was,  as  of  the  fact  that  she 
was  with  him;  and  that  fact  seemed  enough  to  reassure 
her.  She  did  not  even  turn  her  head  to  look  out;  her 
eyes  continued  to  rest  on  him  with  a  vague  smile  which 
appeared  to  light  her  face  from  within,  while  her  lips 
kept  their  sleepy  droop. 

Shouts  and  the  hurried  tread  of  travellers  came  to  them 
through  the  confusing  cross-lights  of  the  platform.  A 
head  appeared  at  the  window,  and  Darrow  threw  him 
self  forward  to  defend  their  solitude;  but  the  intruder 


THE     REEF 

was  only  a  train  hand  going  his  round  of  inspection.  He 
passed  on,  and  the  lights  and  cries  of  the  station  dropped 
away,  merged  in  a  wider  haze  and  a  hollower  resonance, 
as  the  train  gathered  itself  up  with  a  long  shake  and 
rolled  out  again  into  the  darkness. 

Miss  Viner's  head  sank  back  against  the  cushion,  push 
ing  out  a  dusky  wave  of  hair  above  her  forehead.  The 
swaying  of  the  train  loosened  a  lock  over  her  ear,  and  she 
shook  it  back  with  a  movement  like  a  boy's,  while  her 
gaze  still  rested  on  her  companion. 

"You're  not  too  tired  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  smile. 

"We  shall  be  in  before  midnight.  We're  very  nearly 
on  time/'  He  verified  the  statement  by  holding  up  his 
watch  to  the  lamp. 

She  nodded  dreamily.  "It's  all  right.  I  telegraphed 
Mrs.  Farlow  that  they  mustn't  think  of  coming  to  the 
station;  but  they'll  have  told  the  concierge  to  look  out 
for  me." 

"You'll  let  me  drive  you  there  ?" 

She  nodded  again,  and  her  eyes  closed.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  Darrow  that  she  made  no  effort  to  talk  or 
to  dissemble  her  sleepiness.  He  sat  watching  her  till  the 
upper  lashes  met  and  mingled  with  the  lower,  and  their 
blent  shadow  lay  on  her  cheek;  then  he  stood  up  and 
drew  the  curtain  over  the  lamp,  drowning  the  compart 
ment  in  a  bluish  twilight. 

As  he  sank  back  into  his  seat  he  thought  how  differ 
ently  Anna  Summers — or  even  Anna  Leath — would  have 
behaved.  She  would  not  have  talked  too  much;  she 
would  not  have  been  either  restless  or  embarrassed;  but 
3  [27] 


THE     REEF 

her  adaptability,  her  appropriateness,  would  not  have 
been  nature  but  "tact."  The  oddness  of  the  situation 
would  have  made  sleep  impossible,  or,  if  weariness  had 
overcome  her  for  a  moment,  she  would  haVe  waked  with 
a  start,  wondering  where  she  was,  and  how  she  had 
come  there,  and  if  her  hair  were  tidy ;  and  nothing  short 
of  hairpins  and  a  glass  would  have  restored  her  self- 
possession  .  .  . 

The  reflection  set  him  wondering  whether  the  "shel 
tered"  girl's  bringing-up  might  not  unfit  her  for  all  sub 
sequent  contact  with  life.  How  much  nearer  to  it 
had  Mrs.  Leath  been  brought  by  marriage  and  mother 
hood,  and  the  passage  of  fourteen  years  ?  What  were  all 
her  reticences  and  evasions  but  the  result  of  the  deaden 
ing  process  of  forming  a  "lady"  ?  The  freshness  he  had 
marvelled  at  was  like  the  unnatural  whiteness  of  flowers 
forced  in  the  dark. 

As  he  looked  back  at  their  few  days  together  he  saw 
that  their  intercourse  had  been  marked,  on  her  part,  by 
the  same  hesitations  and  reserves  which  had  chilled  their 
earlier  intimacy.  Once  more  they  had  had  their  hour  to 
gether  and  she  had  wasted  it.  As  in  her  girlhood,  her 
eyes  had  made  promises  which  her  lips  were  afraid  to 
keep.  She  was  still  afraid  of  life,  of  its  ruthlessness,  its 
danger  and  mystery.  She  was  still  the  petted  little  girl 
who  cannot  be  left  alone  in  the  dark  .  .  .  His  memory 
flew  back  to  their  youthful  story,  and  long-forgotten  de 
tails  took  shape  before  him.  How  frail  and  faint  the 
picture  was !  They  seemed,  he  and  she,  like  the  ghostly 
lovers  of  the  Grecian  Urn,  forever  pursuing  without  ever 
clasping  each  other.  To  this  day  he  did  not  quite  know 

[28] 


THE     REEF 

what  had  parted  them :  the  break  had  been  as  fortuitous 
as  the  fluttering  apart  of  two  seed-vessels  on  a  wave  of 
summer  air  ... 

The  very  slightness,  vagueness,  of  the  memory  gave  it 
an  added  poignancy.  He  felt  the  mystic  pang  of  the  par 
ent  for  a  child  which  has  just  breathed  and  died.  Why 
had  it  happened  thus,  when  the  least  shifting  of  influences 
might  have  made  it  all  so  different?  If  she  had  been 
given  to  him  then  he  would  have  put  warmth  in  her  veins 
and  light  in  her  eyes :  would  have  made  her  a  woman 
through  and  through.  Musing  thus,  he  had  the  sense  of 
waste  that  is  the  bitterest  harvest  of  experience.  A  love 
like  his  might  have  given  her  the  divine  gift  of  self-re 
newal  ;  and  now  he  saw  her  fated  to  wane  into  old  age 
repeating  the  same  gestures,  echoing  the  words  she  had 
always  heard,  and  perhaps  never  guessing  that,  just  out 
side  her  glazed  and  curtained  consciousness,  life  rolled 
away,  a  vast  blackness  starred  with  lights,  like  the  night 
landscape  beyond  the  windows  of  the  train. 

The  engine  lowered  its  speed  for  the  passage  through 
a  sleeping  station.  In  the  light  of  the  platform  lamp 
Darrow  looked  across  at  his  companion.  Her  head  had 
dropped  toward  one  shoulder,  and  her  lips  were  just  far 
enough  apart  for.  the  reflection  of  the  upper  one  to 
deepen  the  colour  of  the  other.  The  jolting  of  the  train 
had  again  shaken  loose  the  lock  above  her  ear.  It 
danced  on  her  cheek  like  the  flit  of  a  brown  wing  over 
flowers,  and  Darrow  felt  an  intense  desire  to  lean  for 
ward  and  put  it  back  behind  her  ear. 


[29] 


THE     REEF 


IV 


AS  their  motor-cab,  on  the  way  from  the  Gare  du 
Nord,  turned  into  the  central  glitter  of  the  Boule 
vard,  Darrow  had  bent  over  to  point  out  an  incan 
descent  threshold. 

"There!" 

Above  the  doorway,  an  arch  of  flame  flashed  out  the 
name  of  a  great  actress,  whose  closing  performances  in  a 
play  of  unusual  originality  had  been  the  theme  of  long 
articles  in  the  Paris  papers  which  Darrow  had  tossed  into 
their  compartment  at  Calais. 

"That's  what  you  must  see  before  you're  twenty-four 
hours  older!" 

The  girl  followed  his  gesture  eagerly.  She  was  all 
awake  and  alive  now,  as  if  the  heady  rumours  of  the 
streets,  with  their  long  effervescences  of  light,  had  passed 
into  her  veins  like  wine. 

"Cerdine  ?  Is  that  where  she  acts  ?"  She  put  her  head 
out  of  the  window,  straining  back  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
sacred  threshold.  As  they  flew  past  it  she  sank  into  her 
seat  with  a  satisfied  sigh. 

"It's  delicious  enough  just  to  know  she's  there!  I've 
never  seen  her,  you  know.  When  I  was  here  with  Mamie 
Hoke  we  never  went  anywhere  but  to  the  music  halls,  be 
cause  she  couldn't  understand  any  French;  and  when  I 
came  back  afterward  to  the  Farlows'  I  was  dead  broke, 
and  couldn't  afford  the  play,  and  neither  could  they;  so 
the  only  chance  we  had  was  when  friends  of  theirs  invited 

[30] 


I 


THE     REEF 

us — and  once  it  was  to  see  a  tragedy  by  a  Roumanian 
lady,  and  the  other  time  it  was  for  'L'Ami  Fritz'  at  the 
Frangais." 

Darrow  laughed.  "You  must  do  better  than  that  now. 
'Le  Vertige'  is  a  fine  thing,  and  Cerdine  gets  some  won 
derful  effects  out  of  it.  You  must  come  with  me  tomor 
row  evening  to  see  it — with  your  friends,  of  course. — 
That  is,"  he  added,  "if  there's  any  sort  of  chance  of  get 
ting  seats." 

The  flash  of  a  street  lamp  lit  up  her  radiant  face. 
"Oh,  will  you  really  take  us?  What  fun  to  think  that  it's 
tomorrow  already!" 

It  was  wonderfully  pleasant  to  be  able  to  give  such 
pleasure.  Darrow  was  not  rich,  but  it  was  almost  im 
possible  for  him  to  picture  the  state  of  persons  with  tastes 
and  perceptions  like  his  own,  to  whom  an  evening  at  the 
theatre  was  an  unattainable  indulgence.  There  floated 
through  his  mind  an  answer  of  Mrs.  Leath's  to  his  en 
quiry  whether  she  had  seen  the  play  in  question.  "No.  I 
meant  to,  of  course,  but  one  is  so  overwhelmed  with 
things  in  Paris.  And  then  I'm  rather  sick  of  Cerdine — 
one  is  always  being  dragged  to  see  her." 

That,  among  the  people  he  frequented,  was  the  usual 
attitude  toward  such  opportunities.  There  were  too 
many,  they  were  a  nuisance,  one  had  to  defend  one's  self ! 
He  even  remembered  wondering,  at  the  moment,  whether 
to  a  really  fine  taste  the  exceptional  thing  could  ever  be 
come  indifferent  through  habit;  whether  the  appetite  for 
beauty  was  so  soon  dulled  that  it  could  be  kept  alive  only 
by  privation.  Here,  at  any  rate,  was  a  fine  chance  to 
experiment  with  such  a  hunger:  he  almost  wished  he 


THE     REEF 

might  stay  on  in  Paris  long  enough  to  take  the  measure 
of  Miss  Viner's  receptivity. 

She  was  still  dwelling  on  his  promise.  "It's  too  beau 
tiful  of  you !  Oh,  don't  you  think  you'll  be  able  to  get 
seats?"  And  then,  after  a  pause  of  brimming  apprecia 
tion:  "I  wonder  if  you'll  think  me  horrid? — but  it  may 
be  my  only  chance;  and  if  you  can't  get  places  for  us 
all,  wouldn't  you  perhaps  just  take  me?  After  all,  the 
Farlows  may  have  seen  it !" 

He  had  not,  of  course,  thought  her  horrid,  but  only 
the  more  engaging,  for  being  so  natural,  and  so  un 
ashamed  of  showing  the  frank  greed  of  her  famished 
youth.  "Oh,  you  shall  go  somehow  !"  he  had  gaily  prom 
ised  her ;  and  she  had  dropped  back  with  a  sigh  of  pleas 
ure  as  their  cab  passed  into  the  dimly-lit  streets  of  the 
Farlows'  quarter  beyond  the  Seine  .  .  . 

This  little  passage  came  back  to  him  the  next  morning, 
as  he  opened  his  hotel  window  on  the  early  roar  of  the 
Northern  Terminus. 

The  girl  was  there,  in  the  room  next  to  him.  That  had 
been  the  first  point  in  his  waking  consciousness.  The 
second  was  a  sense  of  relief  at  the  obligation  imposed  on 
him  by  this  unexpected  turn  of  events.  To  wake  to  the 
necessity  of  action,  to  postpone  perforce  the  fruitless  con 
templation  of  his  private  grievance,  was  cause  enough  for 
gratitude,  even  if  the  small  adventure  in  which  he  found 
himself  involved  had  not,  on  its  own  merits,  roused  an 
instinctive  curiosity  to  see  it  through. 

When  he  and  his  companion,  the  night  before,  had 
reached  the  Farlows'  door  in  the  rue  de  la  Chaise,  it  was 

[32] 


THE     REEF 

only  to  find,  after  repeated  assaults  on  its  panels,  that 
the  Farlows  were  no  longer  there.  They  had  moved 
away  the  week  before,  not  only  from  their  apartment  but 
from  Paris ;  and  Miss  Viner's  breach  with  Mrs.  Murrett 
had  been  too  sudden  to  permit  her  letter  and  telegram 
to  overtake  them.  Both  communications,  no  doubt,  still 
reposed  in  a  pigeon-hole  of  the  loge;  but  its  custodian, 
when  drawn  from  his  lair,  sulkily  declined  to  let  Miss 
Viner  verify  the  fact,  and  only  flung  out,  in  return  for 
Barrow's  bribe,  the  statement  that  the  Americans  had 
gone  to  Joigny. 

To  pursue  them  there  at  that  hour  was  manifestly  im 
possible,  and  Miss  Viner,  disturbed  but  not  disconcerted 
by  this  new  obstacle,  had  quite  simply  acceded  to  Dar- 
row's  suggestion  that  she  should  return  for  what  re 
mained  of  the  night  to  the  hotel  where  he  had  sent  his 
luggage. 

The  drive  back  through  the,  dark  hush  before  dawn, 
with  the  nocturnal  blaze  of  the  Boulevard  fading  around 
them  like  the  false  lights  of  a  magician's  palace,  had  so 
played  on  her  impressionability  that  she  seemed  to  give 
no  farther  thought  to  her  own  predicament.  Darrow 
noticed  that  she  did  not  feel  the  beauty  and  mystery  of 
the  spectacle  as  much  as  its  pressure  of  human  signifi 
cance,  all  its  hidden  implications  of  emotion  and  adven 
ture.  As  they  passed  the  shadowy  colonnade  of  the  Fran- 
c.ais,  remote  and  temple-like  in  the  paling  lights,  he  felt 
a  clutch  on  his  arm,  and  heard  the  cry :  "There  are  things 
there  that  I  want  so  desperately  to  see !"  and  all  the  way 
back  to  the  hotel  she  continued  to  question  him,  with 
shrewd  precision  and  an  artless  thirst  for  detail,  about 

[33] 


THE     REEF 

the  theatrical  life  of  Paris.  He  was  struck  afresh,  as  he 
listened,  by  the  way  in  which  her  naturalness  eased  the 
situation  of  constraint,  leaving  to  it  only  a  pleasant  savour 
of  good  fellowship.  It  was  the  kind  of  episode  that  one 
might,  in  advance,  have  characterized  as  "awkward",  yet 
that  was  proving,  in  the  event,  as  much  outside  such  defi 
nitions  as  a  sunrise  stroll  with  a  dryad  in  a  dew-drenched 
forest;  and  Darrow  reflected  that  mankind  would  never 
have  needed  to  invent  tact  if  it  had  not  first  invented 
social  complications. 

It  had  been  understood,  with  his  good-night  to  Miss 
Viner,  that  the  next  morning  he  was  to  look  up  the  Joigny 
trains,  and  see  her  safely  to  the  station;  but,  while  he 
breakfasted  and  waited  for  a  time-table,  he  recalled  again 
her  cry  of  joy  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  Cerdine.  It  was 
certainly  a  pity,  since  that  most  elusive  and  incalculable 
of  artists  was  leaving  the  next  week  for  South  America, 
to  miss  what  might  be  a  last  sight  of  her  in  her  greatest 
part ;  and  Darrow,  having  dressed  and  made  the  requisite 
excerpts  from  the  time-table,  decided  to  carry  the  result 
of  his  deliberations  to  his  neighbour's  door. 

It  instantly  opened  at  his  knock,  and  she  came  forth 
looking  as  if  she  had  been  plunged  into  some  sparkling 
element  which  had  curled  up  all  her  drooping  tendrils  and 
wrapped  her  in  a  shimmer  of  fresh  leaves. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me  ?"  she  cried ;  and  with 
a  hand  at  her  waist  she  spun  about  as  if  to  show  off  some 
miracle  of  Parisian  dress-making. 

"I  think  the  missing  trunk  has  come — and  that  it  was 
worth  waiting  for!" 

"You  do  like  my  dress?" 

[34] 


THE     REEF 

"I  adore  it!  I  always  adore  new  dresses — why,  you 
don't  mean  to  say  it's  not  a  new  one?" 

She  laughed  out  her  triumph. 

"No,  no,  no !  My  trunk  hasn't  come,  and  this  is  only 
my  old  rag  of  yesterday — but  I  never  knew  the  trick  to 
fail !"  And,  as  he  stared :  "You  see,"  she  joyously  ex 
plained,  "I've  always  had  to  dress  in  all  kinds  of  dreary 
left-overs,  and  sometimes,  when  everybody  else  was  smart 
and  new,  it  used  to  make  me  awfully  miserable.  So  one 
day,  when  Mrs.  Murrett  dragged  me  down  unexpectedly 
to  fill  a  place  at  dinner,  I  suddenly  thought  I'd  try  spin 
ning  around  like  that,  and  say  to  every  one:  Well,  what 
do  you  think  of  me?'  And,  do  you  know,  they  were  all 
taken  in,  including  Mrs.  Murrett,  who  didn't  recognize 
my  old  turned  and  dyed  rags,  and  told  me  afterward  it 
was  awfully  bad  form  to  dress  as  if  I  were  somebody 
that  people  would  expect  to  know !  And  ever  since, 
whenever  I've  particularly  wanted  to  look  nice,  I've  just 
asked  people  what  they  thought  of  my  new  frock;  and 
they're  always,  always  taken  in!" 

She  dramatized  her  explanation  so  vividly  that  Dar- 
row  felt  as  if  his  point  were  gained. 

"Ah,  but  this  confirms  your  vocation — of  course,"  he 
cried,  "you  must  see  Cerdine !"  and,  seeing  her  face  fall 
at  this  reminder  of  the  change  in  her  prospects,  he  has 
tened  to  set  forth  his  plan.  As  he  did  so,  he  saw  how  easy 
it  was  to  explain  things  to  her.  She  would  either  accept 
his  suggestion,  or  she  would  not :  but  at  least  she  would 
waste  no  time  in  protestations  and  objections,  or  any 
vain  sacrifice  to  the  idols  of  conformity.  The  convic 
tion  that  one  could,  on  any  given  point,  almost  predicate 

[351 


THE     REEF 

this  of  her,  gave  him  the  sense  of  having  advanced  far 
enough  in  her  intimacy  to  urge  his  arguments  against 
a  hasty  pursuit  of  her  friends. 

Yes,  it  would  certainly  be  foolish — she  at  once  agreed — 
in  the  case  of  such  dear  indefinite  angels  as  the  Farlows, 
to  dash  off  after  them  without  more  positive  proof  that 
they  were  established  at  Joigny,  and  so  established  that 
they  could  take  her  in.  She  owned  it  was  but  too  prob 
able  that  they  had  gone  there  to  "cut  down",  and  might 
be  doing  so  in  quarters  too  contracted  to  receive  her ;  and 
it  would  be  unfair,  on  that  chance,  to  impose  herself  on 
them  unannounced.  The  simplest  way  of  getting  farther 
light  on  the  question  would  be  to  go  back  to  the  rue  de  la 
Chaise,  where,  at  that  more  conversable  hour,  the  con 
cierge  might  be  less  chary  of  detail;  and  she  could  de 
cide  on  her  next  step  in  the  light  of  such  facts  as  he  im 
parted. 

Point  by  point,  she  fell  in  with  the  suggestion,  recog 
nizing,  in  the  light  of  their  unexplained  flight,  that  the 
Farlows  might  indeed  be  in  a  situation  on  which  one 
could  not  too  rashly  intrude.  Her  concern  for  her  friends 
seemed  to  have  effaced  all  thought  of  herself,  and  this 
little  indication  of  character  gave  Darrow  a  quite 
disproportionate  pleasure.  She  agreed  that  it  would 
be  well  to  go  at  once  to  the  rue  de  la  Chaise,  but  met 
his  proposal  that  they  should  drive  by  the  declaration 
that  it  was  a  "waste"  not  to  walk  in  Paris ;  so  they 
set  off  on  foot  through  the  cheerful  tumult  of  the 
streets. 

The  walk  was  long  enough  for  him  to  learn  many 
things  about  her.  The  storm  of  the  previous  night  had 

[36] 


THE     REEF 

cleared  the  air,  and  Paris  shone  in  morning  beauty  under 
a  sky  that  was  all  broad  wet  washes  of  white  and  blue; 
but  Darrow  again  noticed  that  her  visual  sensitiveness 
was  less  keen  than  her  feeling  for  what  he  was  sure  the 
good  Farlows — whom  he  already  seemed  to  know — 
would  have  called  "the  human  interest."  She  seemed 
hardly  conscious  of  sensations  of  form  and  colour,  or  of 
any  imaginative  suggestion,  and  the  spectacle  before  them 
— always,  in  its  scenic  splendour,  so  moving  to  her  com 
panion — broke  up,  under  her  scrutiny,  into  a  thousand 
minor  points :  the  things  in  the  shops,  the  types  of  charac 
ter  and  manner  of  occupation  shown  in  the  passing  faces, 
the  street  signs,  the  names  of  the  hotels  they  passed,  the 
motley  brightness  of  the  flower-carts,  the  identity  of  the 
churches  and  public  buildings  that  caught  her  eye.  But 
what  she  liked  best,  he  divined,  was  the  mere  fact  of  be 
ing  free  to  walk  abroad  in  the  bright  air,  her  tongue  rat 
tling  on  as  it  pleased,  while  her  feet  kept  time  to  the 
mighty  orchestration  of  the  city's  sounds.  Her  delight  in 
the  fresh  air,  in  the  freedom,  light  and  sparkle  of  the 
morning,  gave  him  a  sudden  insight  into  her  stifled  past ; 
nor  was  it  indifferent  to  him  to  perceive  how  much  his 
presence  evidently  added  to  her  enjoyment.  If  only  as  a 
sympathetic  ear,  he  guessed  what  he  must  be  worth  to 
her.  The  girl  had  been  dying  for  some  one  to  talk  to, 
some  one  before  whom  she  could  unfold  and  shake  out  to 
the  light  her  poor  little  shut-away  emotions.  Years  of 
repression  were  revealed  in  her  sudden  burst  of  confi 
dence  ;  and  the  pity  she  inspired  made  Darrow  long  to  fill 
her  few  free  hours  to  the  brim. 

She  had  the  gift  of  rapid  definition,  and  his  questions 

[37] 


THE     REEF 


as  to  the  life  she  had  led  with  the  Farlows,  during  the 
interregnum  between  the  Hoke  and  Murrett  eras,  called 
up  before  him  a  queer  little  corner  of  Parisian  existence. 
The  Farlows  themselves — he  a  painter,  she  a  "magazine 
writer" — rose  before  him  in  all  their  incorruptible  sim 
plicity:  an  elderly  New  England  couple,  with  vague 
yearnings  for  enfranchisement,  who  lived  in  Paris  as  if 
it  were  a  Massachusetts  suburb,  and  dwelt  hopefully  on 
the  "higher  side"  of  the  Gallic  nature.  With  equal  vivid 
ness  she  set  before  him  the  component  figures  of  the  cir 
cle  from  which  Mrs.  Farlow  drew  the  "Inner  Glimpses  of 
French  Life"  appearing  over  her  name  in  a  leading  New 
England  journal :  the  Roumanian  lady  who  had  sent  them 
tickets  for  her  tragedy,  an  elderly  French  gentleman  who, 
on  the  strength  of  a  week's  stay  at  Folkestone,  translated 
English  fiction  for  the  provincial  press,  a  lady  from  Wich 
ita,  Kansas,  who  advocated  free  love  and  the  abolition  of 
the  corset,  a  clergyman's  widow  from  Torquay  who  had 
written  an  "English  Ladies'  Guide  to  Foreign  Galleries" 
and  a  Russian  sculptor  who  lived  on  nuts  and  was  "almost 
certainly"  an  anarchist.  It  was  this  nucleus,  and  its  outer 
ring  of  musical,  architectural  and  other  American  stu 
dents,  which  posed  successively  to  Mrs.  Farlow's  versatile 
fancy  as  a  centre  of  "University  Life",  a  "Salon  of  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain",  a  group  of  Parisian  "Intellec 
tuals"  or  a  "Cross-section  of  Montmartre" ;  but  even  her 
faculty  for  extracting  from  it  the  most  varied  literary 
effects  had  not  sufficed  to  create  a  permanent  demand  for 
the  "Inner  Glimpses",  and  there  were  days  when — Mr. 
Farlow's  landscapes  being  equally  unmarketable — a  tem 
porary  withdrawal  to  the  country  (subsequently  utilized 

[38] 


%«    THE     REEF 

as  "Peeps  into  Chateau  Life")  became  necessary  to  the 
courageous  couple. 

Five  years  of  Mrs.  Murrett's  world,  while  increasing 
Sophy's  tenderness  for  the  Farlows,  had  left  her  with  few 
illusions  as  to  their  power  of  advancing  her  fortunes; 
and  she  did  not  conceal  from  Darrow  that  her  theatrical 
projects  were  of  the  vaguest.  They  hung  mainly  on  the 
problematical  good-will  of  an  ancient  comedienne,  with 
whom  Mrs.  Farlow  had  a  slight  acquaintance  (exten 
sively  utilized  in  ' 'Stars  of  the  French  Footlights"  and 
"Behind  the  Scenes  at  the  Frangais"),  and  who  had  once, 
with  signs  of  approval,  heard  Miss  Viner  recite  the  Nuit 
de  Mai. 

"But  of  course  I  know  how  much  that's  worth,"  the 
girl  broke  off,  with  one  of  her  flashes  of  shrewdness. 
"And  besides,  it  isn't  likely  that  a  poor  old  fossil  like 
Mme.  Dolle  could  get  anybody  to  listen  to  her  now,  even 
if  she  really  thought  I  had  talent.  But  she  might  intro 
duce  me  to  people ;  or  at  least  give  me  a  few  tips.  If  I 
could  manage  to  earn  enough  to  pay  for  lessons 
I'd  go  straight  to  some  of  the  big  people  and  work  with 
them.  I'm  rather  hoping  the  Farlows  may  find  me  a 
chance  of  that  kind — an  engagement  with  some  American 
family  in  Paris  who  would  want  to  be  'gone  round'  with 
like  the  Hokes,  and  who'd  leave  me  time  enough  to 
study." 

In  the  rue  de  la  Chaise  they  learned  little  except  ,the 
exact  address  of  the  Farlows,  and  the  fact  that  they  had 
sub-let  their  flat  before  leaving.  This  information  ob 
tained,  Darrow  proposed  to  Miss  Viner  that  they  should 
stroll  along  the  quays  to  a  little  restaurant  looking  out 

[391 


THE     REEF 

on  the  Seine,  and  there,  over  the  plat  du  four,  consider 
the  next  step  to  be  taken.  The  long  walk  had  given 
her  cheeks  a  glow  indicative  of  wholesome  hunger,  and 
she  made  no  difficulty  about  satisfying  it  in  Darrow's  com 
pany.  Regaining  the  river  they  walked  on  in  the  direc 
tion  of  Notre  Dame,  delayed  now  and  again  by  the  young 
man's  irresistible  tendency  to  linger  over  the  book-stalls, 
and  by  his  ever-fresh  response  to  the  shifting  beauties  of 
the  scene.  For  two  years  his  eyes  had  been  subdued  to 
the  atmospheric  effects  of  London,  to  the  mysterious 
fusion  of  darkly-piled  city  and  low-lying  bituminous  sky ; 
and  the  transparency  of  the  French  air,  which  left  the 
green  gardens  and  silvery  stones  so  classically  clear  yet 
so  softly  harmonized,  struck  himxas  having  a  kind  of  con 
scious  intelligence.  Every  line  of  the  architecture,  every 
arch  of  the  bridges,  the  very  sweep  of  the  strong  bright 
river  between  them,  while  contributing  to  this  effect,  sent 
forth  each  a  separate  appeal  to  some  sensitive  memory; 
so  that,  for  Darrow,  a  walk  through  the  Paris  streets 
was  always  like  the  unrolling  of  a  vast  tapestry  from 
which  countless  stored  fragrances  were  shaken  out. 

It  was  a  proof  of  the  richness  and  multiplicity  of  the 
spectacle  that  it  served,  without  incongruity,  for  so  dif 
ferent  a  purpose  as  the  background  of  Miss  Viner's  en 
joyment.  As  a  mere  drop-scene  for  her  personal  adven 
ture  it  was  just  as  much  in  its  place  as  in  the  evocation  of 
great  perspectives  of  feeling.  For  her,  as  he  again  per 
ceived  when  they  were  seated  at  their  table  in  a  low 
window  above  the  Seine,  Paris  was  "Paris"  by  virtue  of 
all  its  entertaining  details,  its  endless  ingenuities  of  pleas 
antness.  Where  else,  for  instance,  could  one  find  the  dear 

[40] 


THE     REEF 

little  dishes  of  hors  d'oeuvre,  the  symmetrically-laid  an 
chovies  and  radishes,  the  thin  golden  shells  of  butter,  or 
the  wood  strawberries  and  brown  jars  of  cream  that  gave 
to  their  repast  the  last  refinement  of  rusticity?  Hadn't 
he  noticed,  she  asked,  that  cooking  always  expressed  the 
national  character,  and  that  French  food  was  clever  and 
amusing  just  because  the  people  were?  And  in  private 
houses,  everywhere,  how  the  dishes  always  resembled  the 
talk — how  the  very  same  platitudes  seemed  to  go  into 
people's  mouths  and  come  out  of  them  ?  Couldn't  he  see 
just  what  kind  of  menu  it  would  make,  if  a  fairy  waved  a 
wand  and  suddenly  turned  the  conversation  at  a  London 
dinner  into  joints  and  puddings  ?  She  always  thought  it 
a  good  sign  when  people  liked  Irish  stew ;  it  meant  that 
they  enjoyed  changes  and  surprises,  and  taking  life  as  it 
came;  and  such  a  beautiful  Parisian  version  of  the  dish 
as  the  navarin  that  was  just  being  set  before  them  was 
like  the  very  best  kind  of  talk — the  kind  when  one  could 
never  tell  before-hand  just  what  was  going  to  be  said ! 

Darrow,  as  he  watched  her  enjoyment  of  their  innocent 
feast,  wondered  if  her  vividness  and  vivacity  were  signs 
of  her  calling.  She  was  the  kind  of  girl  in  whom  certain 
people  would  instantly  have  recognized  the  histrionic  gift. 
But  experience  had  led  him  to  think  that,  except  at  the 
creative  moment,  the  divine  flame  burns  low  in  its  pos 
sessors.  The  one  or  two  really  intelligent  actresses  he 
had  known  had  struck  him,  in  conversation,  as  either 
bovine  or  primitively  "jolly".  He  had  a  notion  that,  save 
in  the  mind  of  genius,  the  creative  process  absorbs  too 
much  of  the  whole  stuff  of  being  to  leave  much  surplus 
for  personal  expression;  and  the  girl  before  him,  with 

[41] 


THE     REEF 

her  changing  face  and  flexible  fancies,  seemed  destined  to 
work  in  life  itself  rather  than  in  any  of  its  counterfeits. 

The  coffee  and  liqueurs  were  already  on  the  table 
when  her  mind  suddenly  sprang  back  to  the  Farlows. 
She  jumped  up  with  one  of  her  subversive  move 
ments  and  declared  that  she  must  telegraph  at  once.  Dar- 
row  called  for  writing  materials,  and  room  was  made  at 
her  elbow  for  the  parched  ink-bottle  and  saturated  blotter 
of  the  Parisian  restaurant;  but  the  mere  sight  of  these 
jaded  implements  seemed  to  paralyze  Miss  Viner's  facul 
ties.  She  hung  over  the  telegraph-form  with  anxiously- 
drawn  brow,  the  tip  of  the  pen-handle  pressed  against  her 
lip;  and  at  length  she  raised  her  troubled  eyes  to  Dar- 
row's. 

"I  simply  can't  think  how  to  say  it." 

"What — that  you're  staying  over  to  see  Cerdine  ?" 

"But  am  I — am  I,  really?"  The  joy  of  it  flamed  over 
her  face. 

Darrow  looked  at  his  watch.  "You  could  hardly  get 
an  answer  to  your  telegram  in  time  to  take  a  train  to 
Joigny  this  afternoon,  even  if  you  found  your  friends 
could  have  you." 

She  mused  for  a  moment,  tapping  her  lip  with  the  pen. 
"But  I  must  let  them  know  I'm  here.  I  must  find  out  as 
soon  as  possible  if  they  can  have  me."  She  laid  the  pen 
down  despairingly.  "I  never  could  write  a  telegram!" 
she  sighed. 

"Try  a  letter,  then,  and  tell  them  you'll  arrive  to 
morrow." 

This  suggestion  produced  immediate  relief,  and  she 
gave  an  energetic  dab  at  the  ink-bottle;  but  after  an- 

[42] 


THE     REEF 

other  interval  of  uncertain  scratching  she  paused  again. 

"Oh,  it's  fearful !  I  dor/t  know  what  on  earth  to  say. 
I  wouldn't  for  the  world  have  them  know  how  beastly 
Mrs.  Murrett's  been." 

Darrow  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  answer.  It  was 
no  business  of  his,  after  all.  He  lit  a  cigar  and  leaned 
back  in  his  seat,  letting  his  eyes  take  their  fill  of  indolent 
pleasure.  In  the  throes  of  invention  she  had  pushed  back 
her  hat,  loosening  the  stray  lock  which  had  invited  his 
touch  the  night  before.  After  looking  at  it  for  a  while  he 
stood  up  and  wandered  to  the  window. 

Behind  him  he  heard  her  pen  scrape  on. 

"I  don't  want  to  worry  them — I'm  so  certain  they've 
got  bothers  of  their  own."  The  faltering  scratches  ceased 
again.  "I  wish  I  weren't  such  an  idiot  about  writing: 
all  the  words  get  frightened  and  scurry  away  when  I  try 
to  catch  them." 

He  glanced  back  at  her  with  a  smile  as  she  bent  above 
her  task  like  a  school-girl  struggling  with  a  "composi 
tion."  Her  flushed  cheek  and  frowning  brow  showed  that 
her  difficulty  was  genuine  and  not  an  artless  device  to 
draw  him  to  her  side.  She  was  really  powerless  to  put 
her  thoughts  in  writing,  and  the  inability  seemed  charac 
teristic  of  her  quick  impressionable  mind,  and  of  the  in 
cessant  come-and-go  of  her  sensations.  He  thought  of 
Anna  Leath's  letters,  or  rather  of  the  few  he  had  received, 
years  ago,  from  the  girl  who  had  been  Anna  Summers. 
He  saw  the  slender  firm  strokes  of  the  pen,  recalled  the 
clear  structure  of  the  phrases,  and,  by  an  abrupt  associa 
tion  of  ideas,  remembered  that,  at  that  very  hour,  just 
such  a  document  might  be  awaiting  him  at  the  hotel. 

*  [43] 


THE     REEF 

What  if  it  were  there,  indeed,  and  had  brought  him  a 
complete  explanation  of  her  telegram?  The  revulsion  of 
feeling  produced  by  this  thought  made  him  look  at  the 
girl  with  sudden  impatience.  She  struck  him  as  posi 
tively  stupid,  and  he  wondered  how  he  could  have  wasted 
half  his  day  with  her,  when  all  the  while  Mrs.  Leath's 
letter  might  be  lying  on  his  table.  At  that  moment,  if 
he  could  have  chosen,  he  would  have  left  his  companion 
on  the  spot;  but  he  had  her  on  his  hands,  and  must  ac 
cept  the  consequences. 

Some  odd  intuition  seemed  to  make  her  conscious  of 
his  change  of  mood,  for  she  sprang  from  her  seat,  crump 
ling  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

"I'm  too  stupid;  but  I  won't  keep  you  any  longer.  I'll 
go  back  to  the  hotel  and  write  there." 

Her  colour  deepened,  and  for  the  first  time,  as  their 
eyes  met,  he  noticed  a  faint  embarrassment  in  hers.  Could 
it  be  that  his  nearness  was,  after  all,  the  cause  of  her  con 
fusion?  The  thought  turned  his  vague  impatience  with 
her  into  a  definite  resentment  toward  himself.  There  was 
really  no  excuse  for  his  having  blundered  into  such  an 
adventure.  Why  had  he  not  shipped  the  girl  off  to  Joigny 
by  the  evening  train,  instead  of  urging  her  to  delay,  and 
using  Cerdine  as  a  pretext  ?  Paris  was  full  of  people  he 
knew,  and  his  annoyance  was  increased  by  the  thought 
that  some  friend  of  Mrs.  Leath's  might  see  him  at  the 
play,  and  report  his  presence  there  with  a  suspiciously 
good-looking  companion.  The  idea  was  distinctly  dis 
agreeable:  he  did  not  want  the  woman  he  adored  to 
think  he  could  forget  her  for  a  moment.  And  by  this 
time  he  Kd  fully  persuaded  himself  that  a  letter  from  her 

[44] 


THE     REEF 

was  awaiting  him,  and  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  imagine 
that  its  contents  might  annul  the  writer's  telegraphed  in 
junction,  and  call  him  to  her  side  at  once  .  .  . 


AT  the  porter's  desk  a  brief  "Pas  de  lettres"  fell  de 
structively  on  the  fabric  of  these  hopes. 

Mrs.  Leath  had  not  written — she  had  not  taken  the 
trouble  to  explain  her  telegram.  Darrow  turned  away 
with  a  sharp  pang  of  humiliation.  Her  frugal  silence 
mocked  his  prodigality  of  hopes  and  fears.  He  had  put 
his  question  to  the  porter  once  before,  on  returning  to  the 
hotel  after  luncheon;  and  now,  coming  back  again  in 
the  late  afternoon,  he  was  met  by  the  same  denial.  The 
second  post  was  in,  and  had  brought  him  nothing. 

A  glance  at  his  watch  showed  that  he  had  barely  time 
to  dress  before  taking  Miss  Viner  out  to  dine ;  but  as  he 
turned  to  the  lift  a  new  thought  struck  him,  and  hurry 
ing  back  into  the  hall  he  dashed  off  another  telegram  to 
his  servant :  "Have  you  forwarded  any  letter  with  French 
postmark  today  ?  Telegraph  answer  Terminus." 

Some  kind  of  reply  would  be  certain  to  reach  him  on 
his  return  from  the  theatre,  and  he  would  then  know 
definitely  whether  Mrs.  Leath  meant  to  write  or  not. 
He  hastened  up  to  his  room  and  dressed  with  a  lighter 
heart. 

* 

Miss  Viner 's  vagrant  trunk  had  finally  found  its  way 
to  its  owner;  and,  clad  in  such  modest  splendour  as  it 
furnished,  she  shone  at  Darrow  across  their  restaurant 

[45] 


THE     REEF 

table.  In  the  reaction  of  his  wounded  vanity  he  found 
her  prettier  and  more  interesting  than  before.  Her 
dress,  sloping  away  from  the  throat,  showed  the  graceful 
set  of  her  head  on  its  slender  neck,  and  the  wide  brim 
of  her  hat  arched  above  her  hair  like  a  dusky  halo. 
Pleasure  danced  in  her  eyes  and  on  her  lips,  and  as  she 
shone  on  him  between  the  candle-shades  Darrow  felt 
that  he  should  not  be  at  all  sorry  to  be  seen  with  her  in 
public.  He  even  sent  a  careless  glance  about  him  in  the 
vague  hope  that  it  might  fall  on  an  acquaintance. 

At  the  theatre  her  vivacity  sank  into  a  breathless  hush, 
and  she  sat  intent  in  her  corner  of  their  baignoire,  with 
the  gaze  of  a  neophyte  about  to  be  initiated  into  the 
sacred  mysteries.  Darrow7  placed  himself  behind  her, 
that  he  might  catch  her  profile  between  himself  and  the 
stage.  He  was  touched  by  the  youthful  seriousness  of  her 
expression.  In  spite  of  the  experiences  she  must  have 
had,  and  of  the  twenty-four  years  to  which  she  owned, 
she  struck  him  as  intrinsically  young;  and  he  wondered 
how  so  evanescent  a  quality  could  have  been  preserved  in 
the  desiccating  Murrett  air.  As  the  play  progressed  he 
noticed  that  her  immobility  was  traversed  by  swift  flashes 
of  perception.  She  was  not  missing  anything,  and  her  in 
tensity  of  attention  when  Cerdine  was  on  the  stage  drew 
an  anxious  line  between  her  brows. 

After  the  first  act  she  remained  for  a  few  minutes  rapt 
and  motionless;  then  she  turned  to  her  companion  with 
a  quick  patter  of  questions.  He  gathered  from  them  that 
she  had  been  less  interested  in  following  the  general  drift 
of  the  play  than  in  observing  the  details  of  its  interpre 
tation.  Every  gesture  and  inflection  of  the  great  actress's 

[46] 


THE     REEF 

had  been  marked  and  analyzed ;  and  Darrow  felt  a  secret 
gratification  in  being  appealed  to  as  an  authority  on  the 
histrionic  art.  His  interest  in  it  had  hitherto  been  merely 
that  of  the  cultivated  young  man  curious  of  all  forms  of 
artistic  expression ;  but  in  reply  to  her  questions  he  found 
things  to  say  about  it  which  evidently  struck  his  listener 
as  impressive  and  original,  and  with  which  he  himself 
was  not,  on  the  whole,  dissatisfied.  Miss  Viner  was 
much  more  concerned  to  hear  his  views  than  to  express 
her  own,  and  the  deference  with  which  she  received  his 
comments  called  from  him  more  ideas  about  the  theatre 
than  he  had  ever  supposed  himself  to  possess. 

With  the  second  act  she  began  to  give  more  attention 
to  the  development  of  the  play,  though  her  interest  was 
excited  rather  by  what  she  called  "the  story"  than  by  the 
conflict  of  character  producing  it.  Oddly  combined 
with  her  sharp  apprehension  of  things  theatrical,  her 
knowledge  of  technical  "dodges"  and  green-room  prece 
dents,  her  glibness  about  "lines"  and  "curtains",  was 
the  primitive  simplicity  of  her  attitude  toward  the  tale 
itself,  as  toward  something  that  was  "really  happening" 
and  at  which  one  assisted  as  at  a  street-accident  or  a 
quarrel  overheard  in  the  next  room.  She  wanted  to  know 
if  Darrow  thought  the  lovers  "really  would"  be  involved 
in  the  catastrophe  that  threatened  them,  and  when  he 
reminded  her  that  his  predictions  were  disqualified  by 
his  having  already  seen  the  play,  she  exclaimed:  "Oh, 
then,  please  don't  tell  me  what's  going  to  happen !"  and 
the  next  moment  was  questioning  him  about  Cerdine's 
theatrical  situation  and  her  private  history.  On  the  latter 
point  some  of  her  enquiries  were  of  a  kind  that  it  is  not 

[47] 


THE     REEF 

in  the  habit  of  young  girls  to  make,  or  even  to  know  how 
to  make;  but  her  apparent  unconsciousness  of  the  fact 
seemed  rather  to  reflect  on  her  past  associates  than  on 
herself. 

When  the  second  act  was  over,  Darrow  suggested 
their  taking  a  turn  in  the  foyer;  and  seated  on  one  of  its 
cramped  red  velvet  sofas  they  watched  the  crowd  surge 
up  and  down  in  a  glare  of  lights  and  gilding.  Then,  as 
she  complained  of  the  heat,  he  led  her  through  the  press 
to  the  congested  cafe  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  where 
orangeades  were  thrust  at  them  between  the  shoulders  of 
packed  consommateurs,  and  Darrow,  lighting  a  cigarette 
while  she  sucked  her  straw,  knew  the  primitive  compla 
cency  of  the  man  at  whose  companion  other  men  stare. 

On  a  corner  of  their  table  lay  a  smeared  copy  of  a 
theatrical  journal.  It  caught  Sophy's  eye  and  after 
poring  over  the  page  she  looked  up  with  an  excited  ex 
clamation. 

"They're  giving  Oedipe  tomorrow  afternoon  at  the 
Frangais!  I  suppose  you've  seen  it  heaps  and  heaps  of 
times  ?" 

He  smiled  back  at  her.  "You  must  see  it  too.  We'll 
go  tomorrow." 

She  sighed  at  his  suggestion,  but  without  discarding 
it.  "How  can  I?  The  last  train  for  Joigny  leaves  at 
four." 

"But  you  don't  know  yet  that  your  friends  will  want 
you." 

"I  shall  know  tomorrow  early.  I  asked  Mrs.  Farlow 
to  telegraph  as  soon  as  she  got  my  letter." 

A  twinge  of  compunction  shot  through  Darrow.    Her 

[48] 


THE     REEF 

words  recalled  to  him  that  on  their  return  to  the  hotel 
after  luncheon  she  had  given  him  her  letter  to  post,  and 
that  he  had  never  thought  of  it  again.  No  doubt  it 
was  still  in  the  pocket  of  the  coat  he  had  taken  off  when 
he  dressed  for  dinner.  In  his  perturbation  he  pushed 
back  his  chair,  and  the  movement  made  her  look  up  at 
him. 

"What's  the  matter  ?" 

"Nothing.  Only — you  know  I  don't  fancy  that  letter 
can  have  caught  this  afternoon's  post." 

"Not  caught  it?    Why  not?" 

"Why,  I'm  afraid  it  will  have  been  too  late."  He 
bent  his  head  to  light  another  cigarette. 

She  struck  her  hands  together  with  a  gesture  which,  to 
his  amusement,  he  noticed  she  had  caught  from  Cerdine. 

"Oh,  dear,  I  hadn't  thought  of  that!  But  surely  it 
will  reach  them  in  the  morning?" 

"Some  time  in  the  morning,  I  suppose.  You  know  the 
French  provincial  post  is  never  in  a  hurry.  I  don't  be 
lieve  your  letter  would  have  been  delivered  this  evening 
in  any  case."  As  this  idea  occurred  to  him  he  felt  him 
self  almost  absolved. 

"Perhaps,  then,  I  ought  to  have  telegraphed  ?" 

"I'll  telegraph  for  you  in  the  morning  if  you  say  so." 

The  bell  announcing  the  close  of  the  entr'-acte  shrilled 
through  the  cafe,  and  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Oh,  come,  come !    We  mustn't  miss  it !" 

Instantly  forgetful  of  the  Farlows,  she  slipped  her  arm 
through  his  and  turned  to  push  her  way  back  to  the 
theatre. 

As  soon  as  the  curtain  went  up  she  as  promptly  forgot 

[49] 


THE     REEF 

her  companion.  Watching  her  from  the  corner  to  which 
he  had  returned,  Darrow  saw  that  great  waves  of  sen 
sation  were  beating  deliriously  against  her  brain.  It  was 
as  though  every  starved  sensibility  were  throwing  out 
feelers  to  the  mounting  tide;  as  though  everything  she 
was  seeing,  hearing,  imagining,  rushed  in  to  fill  the  void 
of  all  she  had  always  been  denied. 

Darrow,  as  he  observed  her,  again  felt  a  detached  en 
joyment  in  her  pleasure.  She  was  an  extraordinary 
conductor  of  sensation :  she  seemed  to  transmit  it  phys 
ically,  in  emanations  that  set  the  blood  dancing  in  his 
veins.  He  had  not  often  had  the  opportunity  of  studying 
the  effects  of  a  perfectly  fresh  impression  on  so  respon 
sive  a  temperament,  and  he  felt  a  fleeting  desire  to  make 
its  chords  vibrate  for  his  own  amusement. 

At  the  end  of  the  next  act  she  discovered  with 
dismay  that  in  their  transit  to  the  cafe  she  had  lost  the 
beautiful  pictured  programme  he  had  bought  for  her. 
She  wanted  to  go  back  and  hunt  for  it,  but  Darrow  as 
sured  her  that  he  would  have  no  trouble  in  getting  her 
another.  When  he  went  out  in  quest  of  it  she  followed 
him  protestingly  to  the  door  of  the  box,  and  he  saw  that 
she  was  distressed  at  the  thought  of  his  having  to  spend 
an  additional  franc  for  her.  This  frugality  smote  Dar 
row  by  its  contrast  to  her  natural  bright  profusion ;  and 
again  he  felt  the  desire  to  right  so  clumsy  an  injustice. 

When  he  returned  to  the  box  she  was  still  standing 
in  the  doorway,  and  he  noticed  that  his  were  not  the  only 
eyes  attracted  to  her.  Then  another  impression  sharply 
diverted  his  attention.  Above  the  fagged  faces  of  the 
Parisian  crowd  he  had  caught  the  fresh  fair  counte- 

[50] 


THE     REEF 

nance  of  Owen  Leath  signalling  a  joyful  recognition. 

The  young  man,  slim  and  eager,  had  detached  himself 
from  two  companions  of  his  own  type,  and  was  seeking 
to  push  through  the  press  to  his  step-mother's  friend. 
The  encounter,  to  Darrow,  could  hardly  have  been  more 
inopportune;  it  woke  in  him  a  confusion  of  feelings  of 
which  only  the  uppermost  was  allayed  by  seeing  Sophy 
Viner,  as  if  instinctively  warned,  melt  back  into  the 
shadow  of  their  box. 

A  minute  later  Owen  Leath  was  at  his  side.  "I  was 
sure  it  was  you!  Such  luck  to  run  across  you!  Won't 
you  come  off  with  us  to  supper  after  it's  over?  Mont- 
martre,  or  wherever  else  you  please.  Those  two  chaps 
over  there  are  friends  of  mine,  at  the  Beaux  Arts ;  both 
of  them  rather  good  fellows — and  we'd  be  so  glad " 

For  half  a  second  Darrow  read  in  his  hospitable  eye 
the  termination  "if  you'd  bring  the  lady  too";  then  it 
deflected  into :  "We'd  all  be  so  glad  if  you'd  come." 

Darrow,  excusing  himself  with  thanks,  lingered  on  for 
a  few  minutes'  chat,  in  which  every  word,  and  every  tone 
of  his  companion's  voice,  was  like  a  sharp  light  flashed 
into  aching  eyes.  He  was  glad  when  the  bell  called  the 
audience  to  their  seats,  and  young  Leath  left  him  with 
the  friendly  question:  "We'll  see  you  at  Givre  later 
on?" 

When  he  rejoined  Miss  Viner,  Darrow's  first  care  was 
to  find  out,  by  a  rapid  inspection  of  the  house,  whether 
Owen  Leath's  seat  had  given  him  a  view  of  their  box. 
But  the  young  man  was  not  visible  from  it,  and  Darrow 
concluded  that  he  had  been  recognized  in  the  corridor 
and  not  at  his  companion's  side.  He  scarcely  knew  why 


THE     REEF 

it  seemed  to  him  so  important  that  this  point  should  be 
settled;  certainly  his  sense  of  reassurance  was  less  due 
to  regard  for  Miss  Viner  than  to  the  persistent  vision  of 
grave  offended  eyes  .  .  . 

During  the  drive  back  to  the  hotel  this  vision  was  per 
sistently  kept  before  him  by  the  thought  that  the  evening 
post  might  have  brought  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Leath.  Even 
if  no  letter  had  yet  come,  his  servant  might  have  tele 
graphed  to  say  that  one  was  on  its  way;  and  at  the 
thought  his  interest  in  the  girl  at  his  side  again  cooled  to 
the  fraternal,  the  almost  fatherly.  She  was  no  more  to 
him,  after  all,  than  an  appealing  young  creature  to  whom 
it  was  mildly  agreeable  to  have  offered  an  evening's  di 
version;  and  when,  as  they  rolled  into  the  illuminated 
court  of  the  hotel,  she  turned  with  a  quick  movement 
which  brought  her  happy  face  close  to  his,  he  leaned 
away,  affecting  to  be  absorbed  in  opening  the  door  of 
the  cab. 

At  the  desk  the  night  porter,  after  a  vain  search 
through  the  pigeon-holes,  was  disposed  to  think  that  a 
letter  or  telegram  had  in  fact  been  sent  up  for  the  gentle 
man;  and  Darrow,  at  the  announcement,  could  hardly 
wait  to  ascend  to  his  room.  Upstairs,  he  and  his  com 
panion  had  the  long  dimly-lit  corridor  to  themselves,  and 
Sophy  paused  on  her  threshold,  gathering  up  in  one  hand 
the  pale  folds  of  her  cloak,  while  she  held  the  other  out 
to  Darrow. 

"If  the  telegram  comes  early  I  shall  be  off  by  the  first 
train ;  so  I  suppose  this  is  good-bye,"  she  said,  her  eyes 
dimmed  by  a  little  shadow  of  regret. 

Darrow,  with  a  renewed  start  of  contrition,  perceived 

[52] 


THE     REEF 

that  he  had  again  forgotten  her  letter ;  and  as  their  hands 
met  he  vowed  to  himself  that  the  moment  she  had  left 
him  he  would  dash  down  stairs  to  post  it. 

"Oh,  I'll  see  you  in  the  morning,  of  course !" 

A  tremor  of  pleasure  crossed  her  face  as  he  stood  be 
fore  her,  smiling  a  little  uncertainly. 

"At  any  rate,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  thank  you  now  for 
my  good  day/' 

He  felt  in  her  hand  the  same  tremor  he  had  seen  in 
her  face.  "But  it's  you,  on  the  contrary — "  he  began,  lift 
ing  the  hand  to  his  lips. 

As  he  dropped  it,  and  their  eyes  met,  something  passed 
through  hers  that  was  like  a  light  carried  rapidly  behind 
a  curtained  window. 

"Good  night ;  you  must  be  awfully  tired,"  he  said  with 
a  friendly  abruptness,  turning  away  without  even  waiting 
to  see  her  pass  into  her  room.  He  unlocked  his  door,  and 
stumbling  over  the  threshold  groped  in  the  darkness  for 
the  electric  button.  The  light  showed  him  a  telegram 
on  the  table,  and  he  forgot  everything  else  as  he  caught 
it  up. 

"No  letter  from  France,"  the  message  read. 

It  fell  from  Barrow's  hand  to  the  floor,  and  he  dropped 
into  a  chair  by  the  table  and  sat  gazing  at  the  dingy  drab 
and  olive  pattern  of  the  carpet.  She  had  not  written, 
then ;  she  had  not  written,  and  it  was  manifest  now  that 
she  did  not  mean  to  write.  If  she  had  had  any  intention 
of  explaining  her  telegram  she  would  certainly,  within 
twenty-four  hours,  have  followed  it  up  by  a  letter.  But 
she  evidently  did  not  intend  to  explain  it,  and  her  silence 
could  mean  only  that  she  had  no  explanation  to  give,  or 

[53] 


THE     REEF 

else  that  she  was  too  indifferent  to  be  aware  that  one  was 
needed. 

Darrow,  face  to  face  with  these  alternatives,  felt  a 
recrudescence  of  boyish  misery.  It  was  no  longer  his 
hurt  vanity  that  cried  out.  He  told  himself  that  he  could 
have  borne  an  equal  amount  of  pain,  if  only  it  had  left 
Mrs.  Leath's  image  untouched ;  but  he  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  her  as  trivial  or  insincere.  The  thought  was  so 
intolerable  that  he  felt  a  blind  desire  to  punish  some  one 
else  for  the  pain  it  caused  him. 

As  he  sat  moodily  staring  at  the  carpet  its  silly  intrica 
cies  melted  into  a  blur  from  which  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Leath 
again  looked  out  at  him.  He  saw  the  fine  sweep  of  her 
brows,  and  the  deep  look  beneath  them  as  she  had  turned 
from  him  on  their  last  evening  in  London.  "This  will  be 
good-bye,  then,"  she  had  said;  and  it  occurred  to  him 
that  her  parting  phrase  had  been  the  same  as  Sophy 
Viner's. 

At  the  thought  he  jumped  to  his  feet  and  took  down 
from  its  hook  the  coat  in  which  he  had  left  Miss  Viner's 
letter.  The  clock  marked  the  third  quarter  after  mid 
night,  and  he  knew  it  would  make  no  difference  if  he 
went  down  to  the  post-box  now  or  early  the  next  morn 
ing;  but  he  wanted  to  clear  his  conscience,  and  having 
found  the  letter  he  went  to  the  door. 

A  sound  in  the  next  room  made  him  pause.  He  had 
become  conscious  again  that,  a  few  feet  off,  on  the 
other  side  of  a  thin  partition,  a  small  keen  flame  of  life 
was  quivering  and  agitating  the  air.  Sophy's  face  came 
back  to  him  insistently.  It  was  as  vivid  now  as  Mrs. 
Leath's  had  been  a 'moment  earlier.  He  recalled  with  a 

[54] 


THE     REEF 

faint  smile  of  retrospective  pleasure  the  girl's  enjoyment 
of  her  evening,  and  the  innumerable  fine  feelers  of  sensa 
tion  she  had  thrown  out  to  its  impressions. 

It  gave  him  a  curiously  close  sense  of  her  presence  to 
think  that  at  that  moment  she  was  living  over  her  en 
joyment  as  intensely  as  he  was  living  over  his  unhappi- 
ness.  His  own  case  was  irremediable,  but  it  was  easy 
enough  to  give  her  a  few  more  hours  of  pleasure.  And 
did  she  not  perhaps  secretly  expect  it  of  him  ?  After  all, 
if  she  had  been  very  anxious  to  join  her  friends  she  would 
have  telegraphed  them  on  reaching  Paris,  instead  of 
writing.  He  wondered  now  that  he  had  not  been  struck 
at  the  moment  by  so  artless  a  device  to  gain  more  time. 
The  fact  of  her  having  practised  it  did  not  make  him 
think  less  well  of  her ;  it  merely  strengthened  the  impulse 
to  use  his  opportunity.  She  was  starving,  poor  child,  for 
a  little  amusement,  a  little  personal  life — why  not  give 
her  the  chance  of  another  day  in  Paris?  If  he  did  so, 
should  he  not  be  merely  falling  in  with  her  own  hopes? 

At  the  thought  his  sympathy  for  her  revived.  She  be 
came  of  absorbing  interest  to  him  as  an  escape  from  him 
self  and  an  object  about  which  his  thwarted  activities 
could  cluster.  He  felt  less  drearily  alone  because  of 
her  being  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  and  in  his 
gratitude  to  her  for  giving  him  this  relief  he  began,  with 
indolent  amusement,  to  plan  new  ways  of  detaining  her. 
He  dropped  back  into  his  chair,  lit  a  cigar,  and  smiled  a 
little  at  the  image  of  her  smiling  face.  He  tried  to 
imagine  what  incident  of  the  day  she  was  likely  to  be  re 
calling  at  that  particular  moment,  and  what  part  he 
probably  played  in  it.  That  it  was  not  a  small  part  he 

[55] 


THE     REEF 

was  certain,  and  the  knowledge  was  undeniably  pleasant. 

Now  and  then  a  sound  from  her  room  brought  before 
him  more  vividly  the  reality  of  the  situation  and  the 
strangeness  of  the  vast  swarming  solitude  in  which  he 
and  she  were  momentarily  isolated,  amid  long  lines  of 
rooms  each  holding  its  separate  secret.  The  nearness 
of  all  these  other  mysteries  enclosing  theirs  gave  Dar- 
row  a  more  intimate  sense  of  the  girl's  presence,  and 
through  the  fumes  of  his  cigar  his  imagination  continued 
to  follow  her  to  and  fro,  traced  the  curve  of  her  slim 
young  arms  as  she  raised  them  to  undo  her  hair,  pictured 
the  sliding  down  of  her  dress  to  the  waist  and  then  to 
the  knees,  and  the  whiteness  of  her  feet  as  she  slipped 
across  the  floor  to  bed  .  .  . 

He  stood  up  and  shook  himself  with  a  yawn,  throwing 
away  the  end  of  his  cigar.  His  glance,  in  following  it, 
lit  on  the  telegram  which  had  dropped  to  the  floor.  The 
sounds  in  the  next  room  had  ceased,  and  once  more 
he  felt  alone  and  unhappy. 

Opening  the  window,  he  folded  his  arms  on  the  sill 
and  looked  out  on  the  vast  light-spangled  mass  of  the 
city,  and  then  up  at  the  dark  sky,  in  which  the  morning 
planet  stood. 


VI 


AT  the  Theatre  Frangais,  the  next  afternoon,  Darrow 
yawned  and  fidgeted  in  his  seat. 

The  day  was  warm,  the  theatre  crowded  and  airless, 
and  the  performance,  it  seemed  to  him,  intolerably  bad. 
He  stole  a  glance  at  his  companion,  wondering  if  she 

[56] 


THE     REEF 

shared  his  feelings.  Her  rapt  profile  betrayed  no  unrest, 
but  politeness  might  have  caused  her  to  feign  an  interest 
that  she  did  not  feel.  He  leaned  back  impatiently,  stifling 
another  yawn,  and  trying  to  fix  his  attention  on  the  stage. 
Great  things  were  going  forward  there,  and  he  was  not 
insensible  to  the  stern  beauties  of  the  ancient  drama.  But 
the  interpretation  of  the  play  seemed  to  him  as  airless 
and  lifeless  as  the  atmosphere  of  the  theatre.  The 
players  were  the  same  whom  he  had  often  applauded  in 
those  very  parts,  and  perhaps  that  fact  added  to  the  im 
pression  of  staleness  and  conventionality  produced  by 
their  performance.  Surely  it  was  time  to  infuse  new 
blood  into  the  veins  of  the  moribund  art.  He  had  the 
impression  that  the  ghosts  of  actors  were  giving  a  spec 
tral  performance  on  the  shores  of  Styx. 

Certainly  it  was  not  the  most  profitable  way  for  a 
young  man  with  a  pretty  companion  to  pass  the  golden 
hours  of  a  spring  afternoon.  The  freshness  of  the  face 
at  his  side,  reflecting  the  freshness  of  the  season,  sug 
gested  dapplings  of  sunlight  through  new  leaves,  the 
sound  of  a  brook  in  the  grass,  the  ripple  of  tree-shadows 
over  breezy  meadows  .  .  . 

When  at  length  the  fateful  march  of  the  cothurns  was 
stayed  by  the  single  pause  in  the  play,  and  Darrow  had 
led  Miss  Viner  out  on  the  balcony  overhanging  the 
square  before  the  theatre,  he  turned  to  see  if  she  shared 
his  feelings.  But  the  rapturous  look  she  gave  him 
checked  the  depreciation  on  his  lips. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  bring  me  out  here?  One  ought  to 
creep  away  and  sit  in  the  dark  till  it  begins  again !" 

"Is  that  the  way  they  made  you  feel?" 

[57] 


THE     REEF 

"Didn't  they  you?  ...  As  if  the  gods  were  there 
all  the  while,  just  behind  them,  pulling  the  strings?"  Her 
hands  were  pressed  against  the  railing,  her  face  shining 
and  darkening  under  the  wing-beats  of  successive  im 
pressions. 

Darrow  smiled  in  enjoyment  of  her  pleasure.  After 
all,  he  had  felt  all  that,  long  ago ;  perhaps  it  was  his  own 
fault,  rather  than  that  of  the  actors,  that  the  poetry  of 
the  play  seemed  to  have  evaporated  .  .  .  But  no,  he 
had  been  right  in  judging  the  performance  to  be  dull  and 
stale :  it  was  simply  his  companion's  inexperience,  her 
lack  of  occasions  to  compare  and  estimate,  that  made  her 
think  it  brilliant. 

"I  was  afraid  you  were  bored  and  wanted  to  come 
away." 

"Bored?"  She  made  a  little  aggrieved  grimace.  "You 
mean  you  thought  me  too  ignorant  and  stupid  to  ap 
preciate  it  ?" 

"No;  not  that."  The  hand  nearest  him  still  lay  on 
the  railing  of  the  balcony,  and  he  covered  it  for  a  mo 
ment  with  his.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  the  colour  rise  and 
tremble  in  her  cheek. 

"Tell  me  just  what  you  think,"  he  said,  bending  his 
head  a  little,  and  only  half-aware  of  his  words. 

She  did  not  turn  her  face  to  his,  but  began  to  talk  rap 
idly,  trying  to  convey  something  of  what  she  felt.  But 
she  was  evidently  unused  to  analyzing  her  aesthetic  emo 
tions,  and  the  tumultuous  rush  of  the  drama  seemed  to 
have  left  her  in  a  state  of  panting  wonder,  as  though  it 
had  been  a  storm  or  some  other  natural  cataclysm.  She 
had  no  literary  or  historic  associations  to  which  to  at- 

[58] 


THE     REEF 

tach  her  impressions :  her  education  had  evidently  not 
comprised  a  course  in  Greek  literature.  But  she  felt  what 
would  probably  have  been  unperceived  by  many  a  young 
lady  who  had  taken  a  first  in  classics :  the  ineluctable  fa 
tality  of  the  tale,  the  dread  sway  in  it  of  the  same  mys 
terious  "luck"  which  pulled  the  threads  of  her  own  small 
destiny.  "It  was  not  literature  to  her,  it  was  fact:  as 
actual,  as  near  by,  as  what  was  happening  to  her  at  the 
moment  and  what  the  next  hour  held  in  store.  Seen  in 
this  light,  the  play  regained  for  Darrow  its  supreme  and 
poignant  reality.  He  pierced  to  the  heart  of  its  signifi 
cance  through  all  the  artificial  accretions  with  which  his 
theories  of  art  and  the  conventions  of  the  stage  had 
clothed  it,  and  saw  it  as  he  had  never  seen  it :  as  life. 

After  this  there  could  be  no  question  of  flight,  and  he 
took  her  back  to  the  theatre,  content  to  receive  his  own 
sensations  through  the  medium  of  hers.  But  with  the 
continuation 'of  the  play,  and  the  oppression  of  the  heavy 
air,  his  attention  again  began  to  wander,  straying  back 
over  the  incidents  of  the  morning. 

He  had  been  with  Sophy  Viner  all  day,  and  he  was  sur 
prised  to  find-  how  quickly  the  time  he A.  gone.  She  had 
hardly  attempted,  as  the  hours  passed,  to  conceal  her 
satisfaction  on  finding  that  no  telegram  came  from  the 
Farlows.  "They'll  have  written,"  she  had  simply  said; 
and  her  mind  had  at  once  flown  on  to  the  golden  pros 
pect  of.  an  afternoon  at  the  theatre.  The  intervening 
hours  had  been  disposed  of  in  a  stroll  through  the 
lively  streets,  and  a  repast,  luxuriously  lingered  over, 
under  the  chestnut-boughs  of  a  restaurant  in  the  Champs 
Elysees.  Everything  entertained  and  interested  her,  and 

5  [59] 


THE     REEF 

Darrow  remarked,  with  an  amused  detachment,  that  she 
was  not  insensible  to  the  impression  her  charms  produced. 
Yet  there  was  no  hard  edge  of  vanity  in  her  sense  of  her 
prettiness :  she  seemed  simply  to  be  aware  of  it  as  a  note 
in  the  general  harmony,  and  to  enjoy  sounding  the  note 
as  a  singer  enjoys  singing. 

After  luncheon,  as  they  sat  over  their  coffee,  she  had 
again  asked  an  immense  number  of  questions  and  de 
livered  herself  of  a  remarkable  variety  of  opinions.  Her 
questions  testified  to  a  wholesome  and  comprehensive 
human  curiosity,  and  her  comments  showed,  like  her  face 
and  her  whole  attitude,  an  odd  mingling  of  precocious 
wisdom  and  disarming  ignorance.  When  she  talked  to 
him  about  "life" — the  word  was  often  on  her  lips — she 
seemed  to  him  like  a  child  playing  with  a  tiger's  cub; 
and  he  said  to  himself  that  some  day  the  child  would 
grow  up — and  so  would  the  tiger.  Meanwhile,  such  ex- 
pertness  qualified  by  such  candour  made  it  impossible  to 
guess  the  extent  of  her  personal  experience,  or  to  esti 
mate  its  effect  on  her  character.  She  might  be  any  one 
of  a  dozen  definable  types,  or  she  might — more  discon 
certingly  to  her  i^mpanion  and  more  perilously  to  her 
self — be  a  shifting  and  uncrystallized  mixture  of  them  all. 

Her  talk,  as  usual,  had  promptly  reverted  to  the  stage. 
She  was  eager  to  learn  about  every  form  of  dramatic 
expression  which  the  metropolis  of  things  theatrical  had 
to  offer,  and  her  curiosity  ranged  from  the  official  tem 
ples  of  the  art  to  its  less  hallowed  haunts.  Her  search 
ing  enquiries  about  a  play  whose  production,  on  one  of 
the  latter  scenes,  had  provoked  a  considerable  amount  of 
scandal,  led  Darrow  to  throw  out  laughingly:  "To  see 

[60] 


THE     REEF 

that  you'll  have  to  wait  till  you're  married!"  and  his 
answer  had  sent  her  off  at  a  tangent. 

"Oh,  I  never  mean  to  marry,"  she  had  rejoined  in  a 
tone  of  youthful  finality. 

"I  seem  to  have  heard  that  before !" 

"Yes;  from  girls  who've  only  got  to  choose!"  Her 
eyes  had  grown  suddenly  almost  old.  "I'd  like  you  to  see 
the  only  men  who've  ever  wanted  to  marry  me !  One  was 
the  doctor  on  the  steamer,  when  I  came  abroad  with  the 
Hokes :  he'd  been  cashiered  from  the  navy  for  drunken 
ness.  The  other  was  a  deaf  widower  with  three  grown 
up  daughters,  who  kept  a  clock-shop  in  Bayswater ! — Be 
sides,"  she  rambled  on,  "I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  believe 
in  marriage.  You  r»ee  I'm  all  for  self -development  and 
the  chance  to  live  one's  life.  I'm  awfully  modern,  you 
know." 

It  was  just  when  she  proclaimed  herself  most  awfully 
modern  that  she  struck  him  as  most  helplessly  backward ; 
yet  the  moment  after,  without  any  bravado,  or  apparent 
desire  to  assume  an  attitude,  she  would  propound  some 
social  axiom  which  could  have  been  gathered  only  in  the 
bitter  soil  of  experience. 

All  these  things  came  back  to  him  as  he  sat  beside  her 
in  the  theatre  and  watched  her  ingenuous  absorption.  It 
was  on  "the  story"  that  her  mind  was  fixed,  and  in  life 
also,  he  suspected,  it  would  always  be  "the  story",  rather 
than  its  remoter  imaginative  issues,  that  would  hold  her. 
He  did  not  believe  there  were  ever  any  echoes  in 
her  soul  .  .  . 

There  was  no  question,  however,  that  what  she  felt  was 
felt  with  intensity:  to  the  actual,  the  immediate,  she 

[61] 


THE     REEF 

spread  vibrating  strings.  When  the  play  was  over,  and 
they  came  out  once  more  into  the  sunlight,  Darrow 
looked  down  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

She  made  no  answer.  Her  dark  gaze  seemed  to  rest  on 
him  without  seeing  him.  Her  cheeks  and  lips  were  pale, 
and  the  loose  hair  under  her  hat-brim  clung  to  her  fore 
head  in  damp  rings.  She  looked  like  a  young  priestess 
still  dazed  by  the  fumes  of  the  cavern. 

"You  poor  child — it's  been  almost  too  much  for  you !" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  vague  smile. 

"Come,"  he  went  on,  putting  his  hand  on  her  arm,  "let's 
jump  into  a  taxi  and  get  some  air  and  sunshine.  Look, 
there  are  hours  of  daylight  left ;  and  see  what  a  night  it's 
going  to  be !" 

He  pointed  over  their  heads,  to  where  a  white  moon 
hung  in  the  misty  blue  above  the  roofs  of  the  rue  de 
Rivoli. 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  signed  to  a  motor-cab, 
calling  out  to  the  driver :  "To  the  Bois !" 

As  the  carriage  turned  toward  the  Tuileries  she  roused 
herself.  "I  must  go  first  to  the  hotel.  There  may  be  a 
message — at  any  rate  I  must  decide  on  something." 

Darrow  saw  that  the  reality  of  the  situation  had  sud 
denly  forced  itself  upon  her.  "I  must  decide  on  some 
thing,"  she  repeated. 

He  would  have  liked  to  postpone  the  return,  to  per 
suade  her  to  drive  directly  to  the  Bois  for  din 
ner.  It  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  remind  her  that 
she  could  not  start  for  Joigny  that  evening,  and  that 
therefore  it  was  of  no  moment  whether  she  received  the 

[62] 


THE     REEF 

Farlows'  answer  then  or  a  few  hours  later ;  but  for  some 
reason  he  hesitated  to  use  this  argument,  which  had 
come  so  naturally  to  him  the  day  before.  After  all,  he 
knew  she  would  find  nothing  at  the  hotel — so  what  did 
it  matter  if  they  went  there  ? 

The  porter,  interrogated,  was  not  sure.  He  himself 
had  received  nothing  for  the  lady,  but  in  his  absence  his 
subordinate  might  have  sent  a  letter  upstairs. 

Darrow  and  Sophy  mounted  together  in  the  lift,  and 
the  young  man,  while  she  went  into  her  room,  unlocked 
his  own  door  and  glanced  at  the  empty  table.  For  him 
at  least  no  message  had  come;  and  on  her  threshold,  a 
moment  later,  she  met  him  with  the  expected:  "No — 
there's  nothing!" 

He  feigned  an  unregretful  surprise.  "So  much  the  bet 
ter  !  And  now,  shall  we  drive  out  somewhere  ?  Or  would 
you  rather  take  a  boat  to  Bellevue?  Have  you  ever 
dined  there,  on  the  terrace,  by  moonlight?  It's  not 
at  all  bad.  And  there's  no  earthly  use  in  sitting  here 
waiting." 

She  stood  before  him  in  perplexity. 

"But  when  I  wrote  yesterday  I  asked  them  to  telegraph. 
I  suppose  they're  horribly  hard  up,  the  poor  dears,  and 
they  thought  a  letter  would  do  as  well  as  a  telegram." 
The  colour  had  risen  to  her  face.  "That's  why  7  wrote 
instead  of  telegraphing;  I  haven't  a  penny  to  spare 
myself !" 

Nothing  she  could  have  said  could  have  filled  her  lis 
tener  with  a  deeper  contrition.  He  felt  the  red  in  his 
own  face  as  he  recalled  the  motive  with  which  he  had 
credited  her  in  his  midnight  musings.  But  that  motive, 


THE    REEF 

after  all,  had  simply  been  trumped  up  to  justify  his  own 
disloyalty :  he  had  never  really  believed  in  it.  The  reflec 
tion  deepened  his  confusion,  and  he  would  have  liked  to 
take  her  hand  in  his  and  confess  the  injustice  he  had 
done  her. 

She  may  have  interpreted  his  change  of  colour  as  an 
involuntary  protest  at  being  initiated  into  such  shabby  de 
tails,  for  she  went  on  with  a  laugh:  "I  suppose  you  can 
hardly  understand  what  it  means  to  have  to  stop  and 
think  whether  one  can  afford  a  telegram?  But  I've  al 
ways  had  to  consider  such  things.  And  I  mustn't  stay 
here  any  longer  now — I  must  try  to  get  a  night  train  for 
Joigny.  Even  if  the  Farlows  can't  take  me  in,  I  can  go 
to  the  hotel:  it  will  cost  less  than  staying  here."  She 
paused  again  and  then  exclaimed:  "I  ought  to  have 
thought  of  that  sooner ;  I  ought  to  have  telegraphed  yes 
terday  !  But  I  was  sure  I  should  hear  from  them  today ; 
and  I  wanted — oh,  I  did  so  awfully  want  to  stay !"  She 
threw  a  troubled  look  at  Darrow.  "Do  you  happen  to  re 
member/'  she  askea,  "what  time  it  was  when  you  posted 
my  letter?" 


VII 


DARROW  was  still  standing  on  her  threshold.    As 
she  put  the  question  he  entered  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

His  heart  was  beating  a  little  faster  than  usual  and  he 
had  no  clear  idea  of  what  he  was  about  to  do  or  say,  be 
yond  the  definite  conviction  that,  whatever  passing  im- 

[64] 


THE     REEF 

pulse  of  expiation  moved  him,  he  would  not  be  fool 
enough  to  tell  her  that  he  had  not  sent  her  letter.  He 
knew  that  most  wrongdoing  works,  on  the  whole, 
less  mischief  than  its  useless  confession;  and  this  was 
clearly  a  case  where  a  passing  folly  might  be  turned,  by 
avowal,  into  a  serious  offense. 

'Tm  so  sorry — so  sorry;  but  you  must  let  me  help 
you  .  .  .  You  will  let  me  help  you  ?"  he  said. 

He  took  her  hands  and  pressed  them  together  between 
his,  counting  on  a  friendly  touch  to  help  out  the  insuffi 
ciency  of  words.  He  felt  her  yield  slightly  to  his  clasp, 
and  hurried  on  without  giving  her  time  to  answer. 

"Isn't  it  a  pity  to  spoil  our  good  time  together  by  re 
gretting  anything  you  might  have  done  to  prevent  our 
having  it  ?" 

She  drew  back,  freeing  her  hands.  Her  face,  losing  its 
look  of  appealing  confidence,  was  suddenly  sharpened  by 
distrust. 

"You  didn't  forget  to  post  my  letter?" 

Darrow  stood  before  her,  constrained  and  ashamed,  and 
ever  more  keenly  aware  that  the  betrayal  of  his  distress 
must  be  a  greater  offense  than  its  concealment. 

"What  an  insinuation!"  he  cried,  throwing  out  his 
hands  with  a  laugh. 

Her  face  instantly  melted  to  laughter.  "Well,  then — 
I  won't  be  sorry;  I  won't  regret  anything  except  that 
our  good  time  is  over!" 

The  words  were  so  unexpected  that  they  routed  all  his 
resolves.  If  she  had  gone  on  doubting  him  he  could  prob 
ably  have  gone  on  deceiving  her ;  but  her  unhesitating  ac 
ceptance  of  his  word  made  him  hate  the  part  he  was  play- 


THE     REEF 

ing.  At  the  same  moment  a  doubt  shot  up  its  serpent 
head  in  his  own  bosom.  Was  it  not  he  rather  than  she 
who  was  childishly  trustful?  Was  she  not  almost  too 
ready  to  take  his  word,  and  dismiss  once  for  all  the  tire 
some  question  of  the  letter?  Considering  what  her  ex 
periences  must  have  been,  such  trustfulness  seemed  open 
to  suspicion.  But  the  moment  his  eyes  fell  on  her  he 
was  ashamed  of  the  thought,  and  knew  it  for  what  it 
really  was :  another  pretext  to  lessen  his  own  delinquency. 

"Why  should  our  good  time  be  over?"  he  asked. 
"Why  shouldn't  it  last  a  little  longer?" 

She  looked  up,  her  lips  parted  in  surprise;  but  before 
she  could  speak  he  went  on:  "I  want  you  to  stay  with 
me — I  want  you,  just  for  a  few  days,  to  have  all  the 
things  you've  never  had.  It's  not  always  May  and  Paris 
— why  not  make  the  most  of  them  now  ?  You  know  me — 
we're  not  strangers — why  shouldn't  you  treat  me  like  a 
friend?" 

While  he  spoke  she  had  drawn  away  a  little,  but  her 
hand  still  lay  in  his.  She  was  pale,  and  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  him  in  a  gaze  in  which  there  was  neither  dis 
trust  or  resentment,  but  only  an  ingenuous  wonder.  He 
was  extraordinarily  touched  by  her  expression. 

"Oh,  do!  You  must.  Listen:  to  prove  that  I'm  sin 
cere  I'll  tell  you  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you  I  didn't  post  your 
letter  ...  I  didn't  post  it  because  I  wanted  so  much  to 
give  you  a  few  good  hours  .  .  .  and  because  I  couldn't 
bear  to  have  you  go." 

He  had  the  feeling  that  the  words  were  being  uttered 
in  spite  of  him  by  some  malicious  witness  of  the  scene, 
and  yet  that  he  was  not  sorry  to  have  them  spoken. 

[66] 


THE     REEF 

The  girl  had  listened  to  him  in  silence.  She  remained 
motionless  for  a  moment  after  he  had  ceased  to  speak; 
then  she  snatched  away  her  hand. 

"You  didn't  post  my  letter  ?  You  kept  it  back  on  pur 
pose?  And  you  tell  me  so  now,  to  prove  to  me  that 
I'd  better  put  myself  under  your  protection  ?"  She  burst 
into  a  laugh  that  had  in  it  all  the  piercing  echoes  of  her 
Murrett  past,  and  her  face,  at  the  same  moment,  under 
went  the  same  change,  shrinking  into  a  small  malevolent 
white  mask  in  which  the  eyes  burned  black.  "Thank 
you — thank  you  most  awfully  for  telling  me !  And  for 
all  your  other  kind  intentions!  The  plan's  delightful — 
really  quite  delightful,  and  I'm  extremely  flattered  and 
obliged." 

She  dropped  into  a  seat  beside  her  dressing-table,  rest 
ing  her  chin  on  her  lifted  hands,  and  laughing  out  at 
him  under  the  elf-lock  which  had  shaken  itself  down  over 
her  eyes. 

Her  outburst  did  not  offend  the  young  man;  its  im 
mediate  effect  was  that  of  allaying  his  agitation.  The 
theatrical  touch  in  her  manner  made  his  offense  seem 
more  venial  than  he  had  thought  it  a  moment  before. 

He  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  beside  her.  "After 
all,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  good-humoured  protest,  "I 
needn't  have  told  you  I'd  kept  back  your  letter ;  and  my 
telling  you  seems  rather  strong  proof  that  I  hadn't  any 
very  nefarious  designs  on  you." 

She  met  this  with  a  shrug,  but  he  did  not  give 
her  time  to  answer.  "My  designs,"  he  continued  with  a 
smile,  "were  not  nefarious.  I  saw  you'd  been  through  a 
bad  time  with  Mrs.  Murrett,  and  that  there  didn't  seem 

[67] 


THE     REEF 

to  be  much  fun  ahead  for  you ;  and  I  didn't  see — and  I 
don't  yet  see — the  harm  of  trying  to  give  you  a  few  hours 
of  amusement  between  a  depressing  past  and  a  not  partic 
ularly  cheerful  future."  He  paused  again,  and  then  went 
on,  in  the  same  tone  of  friendly  reasonableness:  'The 
mistake  I  made  was  not  to  tell  you  this  at  once — not  to 
ask  you  straight  out  to  give  me  a  day  or  two,  and  let  me 
try  to  make  you  forget  all  the  things  that  are  troubling 
you.  I  was  a  fool  not  to  see  that  if  I'd  put  it  to  you  in 
that  way  you'd  have  accepted  or  refused,  as  you  chose; 
but  that  at  least  you  wouldn't  have  mistaken  my  inten 
tions. — Intentions!"  He  stood  up,  walked  the  length  of 
the  room,  and  turned  back  to  where  she  still  sat  motion 
less,  her  elbows  propped  on  the  dressing-table,  her  chin 
on  her  hands.  "What  rubbish  we  talk  about  intentions ! 
The  truth  is  I  hadn't  any:  I  just  liked  being  with  you. 
Perhaps  you  don't  know  how  extraordinarily  one  can 
like  being  with  you  ...  I  was  depressed  and  adrift 
myself ;  and  you  made  me  forget  my  bothers ;  and  when 
I  found  you  were  going — and  going  back  to  dreariness, 
as  I  was — I  didn't  see  why  we  shouldn't  have  a  few 
hours  together  first;  so  I  left  your  letter  in  my  pocket." 

He  saw  her  face  melt  as  she  listened,  and  suddenly  she 
unclasped  her  hands  and  leaned  to  him. 

"But  are  you  unhappy  too?  Oh,  I  never  understood — 
I  never  dreamed  it!  I  thought  you'd  always  had  every 
thing  in  the  world  you  wanted!" 

Darrow  broke  into  a  laugh  at  this  ingenuous  picture 
of  his  state.  He  was  ashamed  of  trying  to  better  his  case 
by  an  appeal  to  her  pity,  and  annoyed  with  himself  for 
alluding  to  a  subject  he  would  rather  have  kept  out  of 

[68] 


THE     REEF 

his  thoughts.  But  her  look  of  sympathy  had  disarmed 
him;  his  heart  was  bitter  and  distracted;  she  was  near 
him,  her  eyes  were  shining  with  compassion — he  bent 
over  her  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"Forgive  me — do  forgive  me,"  he  said. 

She  stood  up  with  a  smiling  head-shake.  "Oh,  it's  not 
so  often  that  people  try  to  give  me  any  pleasure — much 
less  two  whole  days  of  it!  I  sha'n't  forget  how  kind 
you've  been.  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  remember. 
But  this  is  good-bye,  you  know.  I  must  telegraph  at 
once  to  say  I'm  coming." 

"To  say  you're  coming?    Then  I'm  not  forgiven?" 

"Oh,  you're  forgiven — if  that's  any  comfort." 

"It's  not,  the  very  least,  if  your  way  of  proving  it  is  to 
go  away!" 

She  hung  her  head  in  meditation.  "But  I  can't  stay. — 
How  can  I  stay  ?"  she  broke  out,  as  if  arguing  with  some 
unseen  monitor. 

"Why  can't  you?  No  one  knows  you're  here  .  .  . 
No  one  need  ever  know." 

She  looked  up,  and  their  eyes  exchanged  meanings  for 
a  rapid  minute.  Her  gaze  was  as  clear  as  a  boy's.  "Oh, 
it's  not  that"  she  exclaimed,  almost  impatiently ;  "it's  not 
people  I'm  afraid  of !  They've  never  put  themselves  out 
for  me — why  on  earth  should  I  care  about  them?" 

He  liked  her  directness  as  he  had  never  liked  it  before. 
"Well,  then,  what  is  it  ?  Not  me,  I  hope  ?" 

"No,  not  you :  I  like  you.  It's  the  money !  With  me 
that's  always  the  root  of  the  matter.  I  could  never  yet 
afford  a  treat  in  my  life !" 

"Is  that  all  ?"    He  laughed,  relieved  by  her  naturalness. 
[69] 


THE     REEF 

"Look  here;  since  we're  talking  as  man  to  man — can't 
you  trust  me  about  that  too?" 

"Trust  you?  How  do  you  mean?  You'd  better  not 
trust  me!"  she  laughed  back  sharply.  "I  might  never  be 
able  to  pay  up !" 

His  gesture  brushed  aside  the  allusion.  "Money  may 
be  the  root  of  the  matter ;  it  can't  be  the  whole  of  it,  be 
tween  friends.  Don't  you  think  one  friend  may  accept 
a  small  service  from  another  without  looking  too  far 
ahead  or  weighing  too  many  chances?  The  question 
turns  entirely  on  what  you  think  of  me.  If  you  like  me 
well  enough  to  be  willing  to  take  a  few  days'  holiday 
with  me,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  the  thing,  and  the 
pleasure  you'll  be  giving  me,  let's  shake  hands  on  it.  If 
you  don't  like  me  well  enough  we'll  shake  hands  too; 
only  I  shall  be  sorry,"  he  ended. 

"Oh,  but  I  shall  be  sorry  too!"  Her  face,  as  she 
lifted  it  to  his,  looked  so  small  and  young  that  Darrow 
felt  a  fugitive  twinge  of  compunction,  instantly  effaced 
by  the  excitement  of  pursuit. 

"Well,  then?"  He  stood  looking  down  on  her,  his  eyes 
persuading  her.  He  was  now  intensely  aware  that  his 
nearness  was  having  an  effect  which  made  it  less  and  less 
necessary  for  him  to  choose  his  words,  and  he  went  on, 
more  mindful  of  the  inflections  of  his  voice  than  of  what 
he  was  actually  saying:  "Why  on  earth  should  we  say 
good-bye  if  we're  both  sorry  to?  Won't  you  tell  me  your 
reason?  It's  not  a  bit  like  you  to  let  anything  stand  in 
the  way  of  your  saying  just  what  you  feel.  You  mustn't 
mind  offending  me,  you  know !" 

She  hung  before  him  like  a  leaf  on  the  meeting  of 

[70] 


THE     REEF 

cross-currents,  that  the  next  ripple  may  sweep  forward  or 
whirl  back.  Then  she  flung  up  her  head  with  the  odd 
boyish  movement  habitual  to  her  in  moments  of  excite 
ment.  "What  I  feel  ?  Do  you  want  to  know  what  I  feel  ? 
That  you're  giving  me  the  only  chance  I've  ever  had !" 

She  turned  about  on  her  heel  and,  dropping  into  the 
nearest  chair,  sank  forward,  her  face  hidden  against  the 
dressing-table. 

Under  the  folds  of  her  thin  summer  dress  the  modelling 
of  her  back  and  of  her  lifted  arms,  and  the  slight  hollow 
between  her  shoulder-blades,  recalled  the  faint  curves  of 
a  terra-cotta  statuette,  some  young  image  of  grace  hardly 
more  than  sketched  in  the  clay.  Darrow,  as  he  stood 
looking  at  her,  reflected  that  her  character,  for  all  its 
seeming  firmness,  its  flashing  edges  of  "opinion",  was 
probably  no  less  immature.  He  had  not  expected  her  to 
yield  so  suddenly  to  his  suggestion,  or  to  confess  her 
yielding  in  that  way.  At  first  he  was  slightly  discon 
certed;  then  he  saw  how  her  attitude  simplified  his 
own.  Her  behaviour  had  all  the  indecision  and  awkward 
ness  of  inexperience.  It  showed  that  she  was  a  child 
after  all;  and  all  he  could  do — all  he  had  ever  meant  to 
do — was  to  give  her  a  child's  holiday  to  look  back  to. 

For  a  moment  he  fancied  she  was  crying ;  but  the  next 
she  was  on  her  feet  and  had  swept  round  on  him  a  face 
she  must  have  turned  away  only  to  hide  the  first  rush  of 
her  pleasure. 

For  a  while  they  shone  on  each  other  without  speaking ; 
then  she  sprang  to  him  and  held  out  both  hands. 

"Is  it  true?  Is  it  really  true?  Is  it  really  going  to 
happen  to  me?" 

[71] 


THE    REEF 

He  felt  like  answering:  "You're  the  very  creature  to 
whom  it  was  bound  to  happen";  but  the  words  had  a 
double  sense  that  made  him  wince,  and  instead  he  caught 
her  proffered  hands  and  stood  looking  at  her  across  the 
length  of  her  arms,  without  attempting  to  bend  them  or 
to  draw  her  closer.  He  wanted  her  to  know  how  her 
words  had  moved  him ;  but  his  thoughts  were  blurred  by 
the  rush  of  the  same  emotion  that  possessed  her,  and  his 
own  words  came  with  an  effort. 

He  ended  by  giving  her  back  a  laugh  as  frank  as  her 
own,  and  declaring,  as  he  dropped  her  hands:  "All  that 
and  more  too — you'll  see !" 


VIII 


ALL  day,  since  the  late  reluctant  dawn,  the  rain  had 
come  down  in  torrents.  It  streamed  against  Dar- 
row's  high-perched  windows,  reduced  their  vast  prospect 
of  roofs  and  chimneys  to  a  black  oily  huddle,  and  filled 
the  room  with  the  drab  twilight  of  an  underground 
aquarium. 

The  streams  descended  with  the  regularity  of  a  third 
day's  rain,  when  trimming  and  shuffling  are  over,  and  the 
weather  has  settled  down  to  do  its  worst.  There  were 
no  variations  of  rhythm,  no  lyrical  ups  and  downs:  the 
grey  lines  streaking  the  panes  were  as  dense  and  uniform 
as  a  page  of  unparagraphed  narrative. 

George  Darrow  had  drawn  his  armchair  to  the  fire. 
The  time-table  he  had  been  studying  lay  on  the  floor,  and 
he  sat  staring  with  dull  acquiescence  into  the  boundless 

[72] 


THE     REEF 

blur  of  rain,  which  affected  him  like  a  vast  projection  of 
his  own  state  of  mind.  Then  his  eyes  travelled  slowly 
about  the  room. 

It  was  exactly  ten  days  since  his  hurried  unpacking  had 
strewn  it  with  the  contents  of  his  portmanteaux.  His 
brushes  and  razors  were  spread  out  on  the  blotched 
marble  of  the  chest  of  drawers.  A  stack  of  newspapers 
had  accumulated  on  the  centre  table  under  the  "electro 
lier  ",  and  half  a  dozen  paper  novels  lay  on  the  mantel 
piece  among  cigar-cases  and  toilet  bottles ;  but  these  traces 
of  his  passage  had  made  no  mark  on  the  featureless  dul- 
ness  of  the  room,  its  look  of  being  the  makeshift  setting 
of  innumerable  transient  collocations.  There  was  some 
thing  sardonic,  almost  sinister,  in  its  appearance  of  hav 
ing  deliberately  "made  up"  for  its  anonymous  part,  all  in 
noncommittal  drabs  and  browns,  with  a  carpet  and  paper 
that  nobody  would  remember,  and  chairs  and  tables  as 
impersonal  as  railway  porters. 

Darrow  picked  up  the  time-table  and  tossed  it  on  to  the 
table.  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet,  lit  a  cigar  and  went  to 
the  window.  Through  the  rain  he  could  just  discover 
the  face  of  a  clock  in  a  tall  building  beyond  the  railway 
roofs.  He  pulled  out  his  watch,  compared  the  two  time 
pieces,  and  started  the  hands  of  his  with  such  a  rush  that 
they  flew  past  the  hour  and  he  had  to  make  them  repeat 
the  circuit  more  deliberately.  He  felt  a  quite  dispropor 
tionate  irritation  at  the  trifling  blunder.  When  he  had 
corrected  it  he  went  back  to  his  chair  and  threw  himself 
down,  leaning  back  his  head  against  his  hands.  Pres 
ently  his  cigar  went  out,  and  he  got  up,  hunted  for 
the  matches,  lit  it  again  and  returned  to  his  seat. 

[73] 


THE     REEF 

The  room  was  getting  on  his  nerves.  During  the  first 
few  days,  while  the  skies  were  clear,  he  had  not  noticed 
it,  or  had  felt  for  it  only  the  contemptuous  indifference 
of  the  traveller  toward  a  provisional  shelter.  But  now 
that  he  was  leaving  it,  was  looking  at  it  for  the  last 
time,  it  seemed  to  have  taken  complete  possession  of  his 
mind,  to  be  soaking  itself  into  him  like  an  ugly  indelible 
blot.  Every  detail  pressed  itself  on  his  notice  with  the 
familiarity  of  an  accidental  confidant :  whichever  way  he 
turned,  he  felt  the  nudge  of  a  transient  intimacy  .  .  . 

The  one  fixed  point  in  his  immediate  future  was  that 
his  leave  was  over  and  that  he  must  be  back  at  his  post 
in  London  the  next  morning.  Within  twenty- four  hours 
he  would  again  be  in  a  daylight  world  of  recognized 
activities,  himself  a  busy,  responsible,  relatively  necessary 
factor  in  the  big  whirring  social  and  official  machine. 
That  fixed  obligation  was  the  fact  he  could  think  of  with 
the  least  discomfort,  yet  for  some  unaccountable  reason 
it  was  the  one  on  which  he  found  it  most  difficult  to  fix 
his  thoughts.  Whenever  he  did  so,  the  room  jerked 
him  back  into  the  circle  of  its  insistent  associations.  It 
was  extraordinary  with  what  a  microscopic  minuteness 
of  loathing  he  hated  it  all :  the  grimy  carpet  and  wall 
paper,  the  black  marble  mantel-piece,  the  clock  with  a 
gilt  allegory  under  a  dusty  bell,  the  high-bolstered  brown- 
counterpaned  bed,  the  framed  card  of  printed  rules  under 
the  electric  light  switch,  and  the  door  of  communication 
with  the  next  room.  He  hated  the  door  most  of  all  ... 

At  the  outset,  he  had  felt  no  special  sense  of  responsi 
bility.  He,was  satisfied  that  he  had  struck  the  right  note, 
and  convinced  of  his  power  of  sustaining  it.  The  whole 

[74] 


THE     REEF 

incident  had  somehow  seemed,  in  spite  of  its  vulgar  set 
ting  and  its  inevitable  prosaic  propinquities,  to  be  enacting 
itself  in  some  unmapped  region  outside  the  pale  of  the 
usual.  It  was  not  like  anything  that  had  ever  happened 
to  him  before,  or  in  which  he  had  ever  pictured  himself 
as  likely  to  be  involved;  but  that,  at  first,  had  seemed 
no  argument  against  his  fitness  to  deal  with  it. 

Perhaps  but  for  the  three  days'  rain  he  might  have 
got  away  without  a  doubt  as  to  his  adequacy.  The  rain 
had  made  all  the  difference.  It  had  thrown  the  whole 
picture  out  of  perspective,  blotted  out  the  mystery  of  the 
remoter  planes  and  the  enchantment  of  the  middle,  dis 
tance,  and  thrust  into  prominence  every  commonplace 
fact  of  the  foreground.  It  was  the  kind- of  situation  that 
was  not  helped  by  being  thought  over;  and  by  the  per 
versity  of  circumstance  he  had  been  forced  into  the  un 
willing  contemplation  of  its  every  aspect  .  .  . 

His  cigar  had  gone  out  again,  and  he  threw  it  into  the 
fire  and  vaguely  meditated  getting  up  to  find  another. 
But  the  mere  act  of  leaving  his  chair  seemed  to  call  for 
a  greater  exertion  of  the  will  than  he  was  capable  of,  and 
he  leaned  his  head  back  with  closed  eyes  and  listened  to 
the  drumming  of  the  rain. 

A  different  noise  aroused  him.  It  was  the  opening  and 
closing  of  the  door  leading  from  the  corridor  into  the  ad 
joining  room.  He  sat  motionless,  without  opening  his 
eyes ;  but  now  another  sight  forced  itself  under  his  low 
ered  lids.  It  was  the  precise  photographic  picture  of  that 
other  room.  Everything  in  it  rose  before  him  and  pressed 
itself  upon  his  vision  with  the  same  acuity  of  distinctness 
as  the  objects  surrounding  him.  A  step  sounded  on  the 
6  [75] 


THE     REEF 

floor,  and  he  knew  which  way  the  step  was  directed,  what 
pieces  of  furniture  it  had  to  skirt,  where  it  would  prob 
ably  pause,  and  what  was  likely  to  arrest  it.  He  heard 
another  sound,  and  recognized  it  as  that  of  a  wet  um 
brella  placed  in  the  black  marble  jamb  of  the  chimney- 
piece,  against  the  hearth.  He  caught  the  creak  of  a  hinge, 
and  instantly  differentiated  it  as  that  of  the  ward 
robe  against  the  opposite  wall.  Then  he  heard  the 
mouse-like  squeal  of  a  reluctant  drawer,  and  knew  it 
was  the  upper  one  in  the  chest  of  drawers  beside 
the  bed:  the  clatter  which  followed  was  caused  by 
the  mahogany  toilet-glass  jumping  on  its  loosened 
pivots  .  .  . 

The  step  crossed  the  floor  again.  It  was  strange  how 
much  better  he  knew  it  than  the  person  to  whom  it  be 
longed  !  Now  it  was  drawing  near  the  door  of  communi 
cation  between  the  two  rooms.  He  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked.  The  step  had  ceased  and  for  a  moment  there 
was  silence.  Then  he  heard  a  low  knock.  He  made  no 
response,  and  after  an  interval  he  saw  that  the  door 
handle  was  being  tentatively  turned.  He  closed  his  eyes 
once  more  .  .  . 

The  door  opened,  and  the  step  was  in  the  room,  com 
ing  cautiously  toward  him.  He  kept  his  eyes  shut,  re 
laxing  his  body  to  feign  sleep.  There  was  another  pause, 
then  a  wavering  soft  advance,  the  rustle  of  a  dress  behind 
his  chair,  the  warmth  of  two  hands  pressed  for  a  moment 
on  his  lids.  The  palms  of  the  hands  had  the  lingering 
scent  of  some  stuff  that  he  had  bought  on  the  Boule 
vard  .  .  .  He  looked  up  and  saw  a  letter  falling  over  his 
shoulder  to  his  knee  .  .  . 

[76] 


THE     REEF 

"Did  I  disturb  you  ?  I'm  so  sorry !  They  gave  me  this 
just  now  when  I  came  in." 

The  letter,  before  he  could  catch  it,  had  slipped  be 
tween  his  knees  to  the  floor.  It  lay  there,  address  up 
ward,  at  his  feet,  and  while  he  sat  staring  down  at  the 
strong  slender  characters  on  the  blue-gray  envelope  an 
arm  reached  out  from  behind  to  pick  it  up. 

"Oh,  don't — don't!"  broke  from  him,  and  he  bent  over 
and  caught  the  arm.  The  face  above  it  was  close  to  his. 

"Don't  what?" 

"take  the  trouble,"  he  stammered. 

He  dropped  the  arm  and  stooped  down.  His  grasp 
closed  over  the  letter,  he  fingered  its  thickness  and  weight 
and  calculated  the  number  of  sheets  it  must  contain. 

Suddenly  he  felt  the  pressure  of  the  hand  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  became  aware  that  the  face  was  still  leaning  over 
him,  and  that  in  a  moment  he  would  have  to  look  up 
and  kiss  it  ... 

He  bent  forward  first  and  threw  the  unopened  letter 
into  the  middle  of  the  fire. 


BOOK    II 


BOOK    II 

IX 

THE  light  of  the  October  afternoon  lay  on  an  old 
high-roofed  house  which  enclosed  in  its  long  ex 
panse  of  brick  and  yellowish  stone  the  breadth  of  a 
grassy  court  filled  with  the  shadow  and  sound  of  limes. 

From  the  escutcheoned  piers  at  the  entrance  of  the 
court  a  level  drive,  also  shaded  by  limes,  extended  to  a 
white-barred  gate  beyond  which  an  equally  level  avenue 
of  grass,  cut  through  a  wood,  dwindled  to  a  blue-green 
blur  against  a  sky  banked  with  still  white  slopes  of  cloud. 

In  the  court,  half-way  between  house  and  drive,  a  lady 
stood.  She  held  a  parasol  above  her  head,  and  looked 
now  at  the  house-front,  with  its  double  flight  of  steps 
meeting  before  a  glazed  door  under  sculptured  trophies, 
now  down  the  drive  toward  the  grassy  cutting  through 
the  wood.  Her  air  was  less  of  expectancy  than  of  contem 
plation  :  she  seemed  not  so  much  to  be  watching  for  any 
one,  or  listening  for  an  approaching  sound,  as  letting  the 
whole  aspect  of  the  place  sink  into  her  while  she  held 
herself  open  to  its  influence.  Yet  it  was  no  less  apparent 
that  the  scene  was  not  new  to  her.  There  was  no  eager 
ness  of  investigation  in  her  survey:  she  seemed  rather 
to  be  looking  about  her  with  eyes  to  which,  for  some  in- 

(81] 


THE     REEF 

timate  inward  reason,  details  long  since  familiar  had  sud 
denly  acquired  an  unwonted  freshness. 

This  was  in  fact  the  exact  sensation  of  which  Mrs. 
Leath  was  conscious  as  she  came  forth  from  the  house 
and  descended  into  the  sunlit  court.  She  had  come  to 
meet  her  step-son,  who  was  likely  to  be  returning  at  that 
hour  from  an  afternoon's  shooting  in  one  of  the  more 
distant  plantations,  and  she  carried  in  her  hand  the  let 
ter  which  had  sent  her  in  search  of  him;  but  with  her 
first  step  out  of  the  house  all  thought  of  him  had  been 
effaced  by  another  series  of  impressions. 

The  scene  about  her  was  known  to  satiety.  She  had 
seen  Givre  at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  and  for  the  greater 
part  of  every  year,  since  the  far-off  day  of  her  marriage ; 
the  day  when,  ostensibly  driving  through  its  gates  at  her 
husband's  side,  she  had  actually  been  carried  there  on  a 
cloud  of  iris-winged  visions. 

The  possibilities  which  the  place  had  then  represented 
were  still  vividly  present  to  her.  The  mere  phrase  "a 
French  chateau"  had  called  up  to  her  youthful  fancy  a 
throng  of  romantic  associations,  poetic,  pictorial  and  emo 
tional  ;  and  the  serene  face  of  the  old  house  seated  in  its 
park  among  the  poplar-bordered  meadows  of  middle 
France,  had  seemed,  on  her  first  sight  of  it,  to  hold  out 
to  her  a  fate  as  noble  and  dignified  as  its  own  mien. 

Though  she  could  still  call  up  that  phase  of  feeling  it 
had  long  since  passed,  and  the  house  had  for  a  time 
become  to  her  the  very  symbol  of  narrowness  and  mo 
notony.  Then,  with  the  passing  of  years,  it  had 
gradually  acquired  a  less  inimical  character,  had  become, 
not  again  a  castle  of  dreams,  evoker  of  fair  images  and 

[82] 


THE     REEF 

romantic  legend,  but  the  shell  of  a  life  slowly  ad 
justed  to  its  dwelling:  the  place  one  came  back  to,  the 
place  where  one  had  one's  duties,  one's  habits  and  one's 
books,  the  place  one  would  naturally  live  in  till  one  died : 
a  dull  house,  an  inconvenient  house,  of  which  one  knew 
all  the  defects,  the  shabbinesses,  the  discomforts,  but  to 
which  one  was  so  used  that  one  could  hardly,  after  so 
long  a  time,  think  one's  self  away  from  it  without  suf 
fering  a  certain  loss  of  identity. 

Now,  as  it  lay  before  her  in  the  autumn  mildness,  its 
mistress  was  surprised  at  her  own  insensibility.  She  had 
been  trying  to  see  the  house  through  the  eyes  of  an  old 
friend  who,  the  next  morning,  would  be  driving  up  to  it 
for  the  first  time ;  and  in  so  doing  she  seemed  to  be  open 
ing  her  own  eyes  upon  it  after  a  long  interval  of  blind 
ness. 

The  court  was  very  still,  yet  full  of  a  latent  life:  the 
wheeling  and  rustling  of  pigeons  about  the  rectangular 
yews  and  across  the  sunny  gravel;  the  sweep  of  rooks 
above  the  lustrous  greyish-purple  slates  of  the  roof,  and 
the  stir  of  the  tree-tops  as  they  met  the  breeze  which 
every  day,  at  that  hour,  came  punctually  up  from  the 
river. 

Just  such  a  latent  animation  glowed  in  Anna  Leath. 
In  every  nerve  and  vein  she  was  conscious  of  that  equi 
poise  of  bliss  which  the  fearful  human  heart  scarce  dares 
acknowledge.  She  was  not  used  to  strong  or  full 
emotions ;  but  she  had  always  known  that  she  should  not 
be  afraid  of  them.  She  was  not  afraid  now ;  but  she  felt 
a  deep  inward  stillness. 

The  immediate  effect  of  the  feeling  had  been  to  send 
[83] 


THE     REEF 

her  forth  in  quest  of  her  step-son.  She  wanted  to  stroll 
back  with  him  and  have  a  quiet  talk  before  they  re-en 
tered  the  house.  It  was  always  easy  to  talk  to  him,  and 
at  this  moment  he  was  the  one  person  to  whom  she  could 
have  spoken  without  fear  of  disturbing  her  inner  still 
ness.  She  was  glad,  for  all  sorts  of  reasons,  that  Ma 
dame  de  Chantelle  and  Effie  were  still  at  Ouchy  with  the 
governess,  and  that  she  and  Owen  had  the  house  to 
themselves.  And  she  was  glad  that  even  he  was  not  yet 
in  sight.  She  wanted  to  be  alone  a  little  longer;  not  to 
think,  but  to  let  the  long  slow  waves  of  joy  break  over  her 
one  by  one. 

She  walked  out  of  the  court  and  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  benches  that  bordered  the  drive.  From  her  seat  she 
had  a  diagonal  view  of  the  long  house-front  and  of  the 
domed  chapel  terminating  one  of  the  wings.  Beyond  a 
gate  in  the  court-yard  wall  the  flower-garden  drew  its 
dark-green  squares  and  raised  its  statues  against  the  yel 
lowing  background  of  the  park.  In  the  borders  only  a 
few  late  pinks  and  crimsons  smouldered,  but  a  peacock 
strutting  in  the  sun  seemed  to  have  gathered  into  his  out 
spread  fan  all  the  summer  glories  of  the  place. 

In  Mrs.  Leath's  hand  was  the  letter  which  had  opened 
her  eyes  to  these  things,  and  a  smile  rose  to  her  lips  at 
the  mere  feeling  of  the  paper  between  her  fingers.  The 
thrill  it  sent  through  her  gave  a  keener  edge  to  every 
sense.  She  felt,  saw,  breathed  the  shining  world  as 
though  a  thin  impenetrable  veil  had  suddenly  been  re 
moved  from  it. 

Just  such  a  veil,  she  now  perceived,  had  always  hung 
between  herself  and  life.  It  had  been  like  the  stage  gauze 

[84] 


THE     REEF 

which  gives  an  illusive  air  of  reality  to  the  painted  scene 
behind  it,  yet  proves  it,  after  all,  to  be  no  more  than  a 
painted  scene. 

She  had  been  hardly  aware,  in  her  girlhood,  of  differ 
ing  from  others  in  this  respect.  In  the  well-regulated 
well-fed  Summers  world  the  unusual  was  regarded  as  1 
either  immoral  or  ill-bred,  and  people  with  emotions  were 
not  visited.  Sometimes,  with  a  sense  of  groping  in  a 
topsy-turvy  universe,  Anna  had  wondered  why  everybody 
about  her  seemed  to  ignore  all  the  passions  and  sensa 
tions  which  formed  the  stuff  of  great  poetry  and  mem 
orable  action.  In  a  community  composed  entirely  of 
people  like  her  parents  and  her  parents'  friends  she  did 
not  see  how  the  magnificent  things  one  read  about  could 
ever  have  happened.  She  was  sure  that  if  anything  of 
the  kind  had  occurred  in  her  immediate  circle  her  mother 
would  have  consulted  the  family  clergyman,  and  her 
father  perhaps  even  have  rung  up  the  police;  and  her 
sense  of  humour  compelled  her  to  own  that,  in  the  given 
conditions,  these  precautions  might  not  have  been  unjusti 
fied. 

Little  by  little  the  conditions  conquered  her,  and  she 
learned  to  regard  the  substance  of  life  as  a  mere  canvas 
for  the  embroideries  of  poet  and  painter,  and  its  little 
swept  and  fenced  and  tended  surface  as  its  actual  sub 
stance.  It  was  in  the  visioned  region  of  action  and  emo 
tion  that  her  fullest  hours  were  spent;  but  it  hardly 
occurred  to  her  that  they  might  be  translated  into  experi 
ence,  or  connected  with  anything  likely  to  happen  to  a 
young  lady  living  in  West  Fifty-fifth  Street. 

She  perceived,  indeed,  that  other  girls,  leading  out- 

[85] 


THE     REEF 

wardly  the  same  life  as  herself,  and  seemingly  unaware 
of  her  world  of  hidden  beauty,  were  yet  possessed  of 
some  vital  secret  which  escaped  her.  There  seemed  to 
be  a  kind  of  freemasonry  between  them ;  they  were  wider 
awake  than  she,  more  alert,  and  surer  of  their  wants  if 
not  of  their  opinions.  She  supposed  they  were  "cleverer", 
and  accepted  her  inferiority  good-humouredly,  half  aware, 
within  herself,  of  a  reserve  of  unused  power  which  the 
others  gave  no  sign  of  possessing. 

This  partly  consoled  her  for  missing  so  much  of  what 
made  their  "good  time" ;  but  the  resulting  sense  of  exclu 
sion,  of  being  somehow  laughingly  but  firmly  debarred 
from  a  share  of  their  privileges,  threw  her  back  on  her 
self  and  deepened  the  reserve  which  made  envious 
mothers  cite  her  as  a  model  of  ladylike  repression. 

Love,  she  told  herself,  would  one  day  release  her  from 
this  spell  of  unreality.  She  was  persuaded  that  the  sub 
lime  passion  was  the  key  to  the  enigma ;  but  it  was  diffi 
cult  to  relate  her  conception  of  love  to  the  forms  it  wore 
in  her  experience.  Two  or  three  of  the  girls  she  had 
envied  for  their  superior  acquaintance  with  the  arts  of 
life  had  contracted,  in  the  course  of  time,  what  were 
variously  described  as  "romantic"  or  "foolish"  marriages ; 
one  even  made  a  runaway  match,  and  languished  for  a 
while  under  a  cloud  of  social  reprobation.  Here,  then, 
was  passion  in  action,  romance  converted  to  reality;  yet 
the  heroines  of  these  exploits  returned  from  them  un- 
transfigured,  and  their  husbands  were  as  dull  as  ever 
when  one  had  to  sit  next  to  them  at  dinner. 

Her  own  case,  of  course,  would  be  different.  Some  day 
she  would  find  the  magic  bridge  between  West  Fifty- 

[86] 


THE     REEF 

fifth  Street  and  life ;  once  or  twice  she  had  even  fancied 
that  the  clue  was  in  her  hand.  The  first  time  was  when 
she  had  met  young  Darrow.  She  recalled  even  now  the 
stir  of  the  encounter.  But  his  passion  swept  over  her  like 
a  wind  that  shakes  the  roof  of  the  forest  without  reaching 
its  still  glades  or  rippling  its  hidden  pools.  He  was  ex 
traordinarily  intelligent  and  agreeable,  and  her  heart 
beat  faster  when  he  was  with  her.  He  had  a  tall  fair  easy 
presence  and  a  mind  in  which  the  lights  of  irony  played 
pleasantly  through  the  shades  of  feeling.  She  liked  to 
hear  his  voice  almost  as  much  as  to  listen  to  what  he  was 
saying,  and  to  listen  to  what  he  was  saying  almost  as 
much  as  to  feel  that  he  was  looking  at  her ;  but  he  wanted 
to  kiss  her,  and  she  wanted  to  talk  to  him  about  books 
and  pictures,  and  have  him  insinuate  the  eternal  theme  of 
their  love  into  every  subject  they  discussed. 

Whenever  they  were  apart  a  reaction  set  in.  She 
wondered  how  she  could  have  been  so  cold,  called  her 
self  a  prude  and  an  idiot,  questioned  if  any  man  could 
really  care  for  her,  and  got  up  in  the  dead  of  night  to 
try  new  ways  of  doing  her  hair.  But  as  soon  as  he  re 
appeared  her  head  straightened  itself  on  her  slim  neck 
and  she  sped  her  little  shafts  of  irony,  or  flew  her  little 
kites  of  erudition,  while  hot  and  cold  waves  swept  over 
her,  and  the  things  she  really  wanted  to  say  choked  in 
her  throat  and  burned  the  palms  of  her  hands. 

Often  she  told  herself  that  any  silly  girl  who  had 
waltzed  through  a  season  would  know  better  than  she 
how  to  attract  a  man  and  hold  him ;  but  when  she  said  "a 
man"  she  did  not  really  mean  George  Darrow. 

Then  one  day,  at  a  dinner,  she  saw  him  sitting  next 

[87] 


THE     REEF 

to  one  of  the  silly  girls  in  question:  the  heroine  of  the 
elopement  which  had  shaken  West  Fifty-fifth  Street  to 
its  base.  The  young  lady  had  come  back  from  her  ad 
venture  no  less  silly  than  when  she  went;  and  across 
the  table  the  partner  of  her  flight,  a  fat  young  man  with 
eye-glasses,  sat  stolidly  eating  terrapin  and  talking  about 
polo  and  investments. 

The  young  woman  was  undoubtedly  as  silly  as  ever ; 
yet  after  watching  her  for  a  few  minutes  Miss  Summers 
perceived  that  she  had  somehow  grown  luminous,  peril 
ous,  obscurely  menacing  to  nice  girls  and  the  young  men 
they  intended  eventually  to  accept.      Suddenly,  at  the 
sight,  a  rage  of  possessorship  awoke  in  her.     She  must 
save  Darrow,  assert  her  right  to  him  at  any  price.    Pride 
.and  reticence  went  down  in  a  hurricane  of  jealousy.    She 
'heard  him  laugh,  and  there  was  something  new  in  his 
laugh  ...  She   watched  him    talking,   talking  ...  He 
sat^  slightly   sideways,   a   faint   smile   beneath   his   lids, 
lowering  his  voice  as  he  lowered  it  when  he  talked  to 
her.    She  caught  the  same  inflections,  but  his  eyes  were 
different.      It  would  have  offended  her  once  if  he  had 
looked  at  her  like  that.    Now  her  one  thought  was  that 
none  but  she  had  a  right  to  be  so  looked  at.     And  that 
girl  of  all  others !     What  illusions  could  he  have  about 
a  girl  who,  hardly  a  year  ago,  had  made  a  fool  of  her 
self   over  the   fat  young  man   stolidly   eating   terrapin 
across  the  table?    If  that  was  where  romance  and  pas 
sion  ended,  it  was  better  to  take  to  district  visiting  or 

algebra ! 

All  night  she  lay  awake  and  wondered :  "What  was  she 
saying  to  him?    How  shall  I  learn  to  say  such  things?" 

[88] 


THE     REEF 

and  she  decided  that  her  heart  would  tell  her — that  the 
next  time  they  were  alone  together  the  irresistible  word 
would  spring  to  her  lips.  He  came  the  next  day,  and 
they  were  alone,  and  all  she  found  was :  "I  didn't  know 
that  you  and  Kitty  Mayne  were  such  friends." 

He  answered  with  indifference  that  he  didn't  know  it 
either,  and  in  the  reaction  of  relief  she  declared:  "She's 
certainly  ever  so  much  prettier  than  she  was  ..." 

"She's  rather  good  fun,"  he  admitted,  as  though 
he  had  not  noticed  her  other  advantages ;  and  suddenly 
Anna  saw  in  his  eyes  the  look  she  had  seen  there  the 
previous  evening. 

She  felt  as  if  he  were  leagues  and  leagues  away  from 
her.  All  her  hopes  dissolved,  and  she  was  conscious  of 
sitting  rigidly,  with  high  head  and  straight  lips,  while 
the  irresistible  word  fled  with  a  last  wing-beat  into  the 
golden  mist  of  her  illusions  .  .  . 

She  was  still  quivering  with  the  pain  and  bewilderment 
of  this  adventure  when  Fraser  Leath  appeared.  She  met 
him  first  in  Italy,  where  she  was  travelling  with  her 
parents ;  and  the  following  winter  he  came  to  New  York. 
In  Italy  he  had  seemed  interesting :  in  New  York  he  be 
came  remarkable.  He  seldom  spoke  of  his  life  in  Europe, 
and  let  drop  but  the  most  incidental  allusions  to  the 
friends,  the  tastes,  the  pursuits  which  filled  his  cosmopoli 
tan  days;  but  in  the  atmosphere  of  West  Fifty-fifth 
Street  he  seemed  the  embodiment  of  a  storied  past.  He 
presented  Miss  Summers  with  a  prettily-bound  an 
thology  of  the  old  French  poets  and,  when  she  showed  a 
discriminating  pleasure  in  the  gift,  observed  with  his 

[89] 


THE     REEF 

grave  smile :  "I  didn't  suppose  I  should  find  any  one  here 
who  would  feel  about  these  things  as  I  do."  On  another 
occasion  he  asked  her  acceptance  of  a  half-effaced  eigh 
teenth  century  pastel  which  he  had  surprisingly  picked  up 
in  a  New  York  auction-room.  "I  know  no  one  but  y  i 
who  would  really  appreciate  it,"  he  explained. 

He  permitted  himself  no  other  comments,  but  these 
conveyed  with  sufficient  directness  that  he  thought  her 
worthy  of  a  different  setting.  That  she  should  be  so  re 
garded  by  a  man  living  in  an  atmosphere  of  art  anc1- '  u- 
ty,  and  esteeming  them  the  vital  elements  of  life,  made 
her  feel  for  the  first  time  that  she  was  understood.  Here 
was  some  one  whose  scale  of  values  was  the  same  as  hers, 
and  who  thought  her  opinion  worth  hearing  on  the  very 
matters  which  they  both  considered  of  supremt  impor 
tance.  The  discovery  restored  her  self-confidence,  and 
she  revealed  herself  to  Mr.  Leath  as  she  had  never  known 
how  to  reveal  herself  to  Darrow. 

As  the  courtship  progressed,  and  they  grew  more  con 
fidential,  her  suitor  surprised  and  delighted  her  by  little 
explosions  of  revolutionary  sentiment.  He  said:  "Shall 
you  mind,  I  wonder,  if  I  tell  you  that  you  live  in  a  dread 
fully  conventional  atmosphere?"  and,  seeing  that  she 
manifestly  did  not  mind:  "Of  course  I  shall  say  things 
now  and  then  that  will  horrify  your  dear  delightful 
parents — I  shall  shock  them  awfully,  I  warn  you." 

In  confirmation  of  this  warning  he  permitted  himself 
an  occasional  playful  fling  at  the  regular  church-going  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Summers,  at  the  innocuous  character  of  the 
literature  in  their  library,  and  at  their  guileless  apprecia 
tions  in  art.  He  even  ventured  to  banter  Mrs.  Summers 

[90] 


THE     REEF 

on  her  refusal  to  receive  the  irrepressible  Kitty  Mayne, 
who,  after  a  rapid  passage  with  George  Darrow,  was 
now  involved  in  another  and  more  flagrant  adventure. 

"In  Europe,  you  know,  the  husband  is  regarded  as  the 
only  judge  in  such  matters.  As  long  as  he  accepts  the 
situation — "  Mr.  Leath  explained  to  Anna,  who  took  his 
view  the  more  emphatically  in  order  to  convince  herself 
that,  personally,  she  had  none  but  the  most  tolerant  senti 
ments  toward  the  lady. 

^e  subversiveness  of  Mr.  Leath's  opinions  was  en 
hanced  by  the  distinction  of  his  appearance  and  the  re 
serve  of  his  manners.  He  was  like  the  anarchist  with  a 
gardenia  in  his  buttonhole  who  figures  in  the  higher 
melodrama.  Every  word,  every  allusion,  every  note  of 
his  ag  ^eably-modulated  voice,  gave  Anna  a  glimpse  of 
a  society  at  once  freer  and  finer,  which  observed  the  tra 
ditional  forms  but  had  discarded  the  underlying  preju 
dices;  whereas  the  world  she  knew  had  discarded  many 
of  the  forms  and  kept  almost  all  the  prejudices. 

In  such  an  atmosphere  as  his  an  eager  young  woman, 
curious  as  to  all  the  manifestations  of  life,  yet  instinc 
tively  desiring  that  they  should  come  to  her  in  terms  of 
beauty  and  fine  feeling,  must  surely  find  the  largest 
scope  for  self-expression.  Study,  travel,  the  contact  of 
the  world,  the  comradeship  of  a  polished  and  enlightened 
mind,  would  combine  to  enrich  her  days  and  form  her 
character;  and  it  was  only  in  the  rare  moments  when 
Mr.  Leath's  symmetrical  blond  mask  bent  over  hers,  and 
his  kiss  dropped  on  her  like  a  cold  smooth  pebble,  that 
she  questioned  the  completeness  of  the  joys  he  offered. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  the  walls  on  which  her 


THE     REEF 

gaze  now  rested  had  shed  a  glare  of  irony  on  these  early 
dreams.  In  the  first  years  of  her  marriage  the  sober 
symmetry  of  Givre  had  suggested  only  her  husband's 
neatly-balanced  mind.  It  was  a  mind,  she  soon  learned, 
contentedly  absorbed  in  formulating  the  conventions  of 
the  unconventional.  West  Fifty-fifth  Street  was  no  more 
conscientiously  concerned  than  Givre  with  the  momen 
tous  question  of  "what  people  did" ;  it  was  only  the  type 
of  deed  investigated  that  was  different.  Mr.  Leath  col 
lected  his  social  instances  with  the  same  seriousness  and 
patience  as  his  snuff-boxes.  He  exacted  a  rigid  conform 
ity  to  his  rules  of  non-conformity  and  his  scepticism 
had  the  absolute  accent  of  a  dogma.  He  even  cher 
ished  certain  exceptions  to  his  rules  as  the  book-collector 
prizes  a  "defective"  first  edition.  The  Protestant  church- 
going  of  Anna's  parents  had  provoked  his  gentle  sar 
casm;  but  he  prided  himself  on  his  mother's  devoutness, 
because  Madame  de  Chantelle,  in  embracing  her  second 
husband's  creed,  had  become  part  of  a  society  which  still 
observes  the  outward  rites  of  piety. 

Anna,  in  fact,  had  discovered  in  her  amiable  and  ele- 
nt  mother-in-law  an  unexpected  embodiment  of  the 
West  Fifty-fifth  Street  ideal.  Mrs.  Summers  and 
Madame  de  Chantelle,  however  strongly  they  would  have 
disagreed  as  to  the  authorized  source  of  Christian  dogma, 
would  have  found  themselves  completely  in  accord  on 
all  the  momentous  minutiae  of  drawing-room  conduct ; 
yet  Mr.  Leath  treated  his  mother's  foibles  with  a  respect 
which  Anna's  experience  of  him  forbade  her  to  attribute 
wholly  to  filial  affection. 
In  the  early  days,  when  she  was  still  questioning  the* 

[92] 


THE     REEF 

Sphinx  instead  of  trying  to  find  an  answer  to  it,  she  ven 
tured  to  tax  her  husband  with  his  inconsistency. 

"You  say  your  mother  won't  like  it  if  I  call  on  that 
amusing  little  woman  who  came  here  the  other  day, 
and  was  let  in  by  mistake;  but  Madame  de  Chantelle 
tells  me  she  lives  with  her  husband,  and  when  mother 
refused  to  visit  Kitty  Mayne  you  said " 

Mr.  Leath's  smile  arrested  her.  "My  dear  child,  I 
don't  pretend  to  apply  the  principles  of  logic  to  my  poor 
mother's  prejudices." 

"But  if  you  admit  that  they  are  prejudices ?" 

"There  are  prejudices  and  prejudices.  My  mother,  of 
course,  got  hers  from  Monsieur  de  Chantelle,  and 
they  seem  to  me  as  much  in  their  place  in  this  house 
as  the  pot-pourri  in  your  hawthorn  jar.  They  preserve  a 
social  tradition  of  which  I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  the  least 
perfume.  Of  course  I  don't  expect  you,  just  at  first, 
to  feel  the  difference,  to  see  the  nuance.  In  the  case 
of  little  Madame  de  Vireville,  for  instance :  you  point 
out  that  she's  still  under  her  husband's  roof.  Very  true ; 
and  if  she  were  merely  a  Paris  acquaintance — especially 
if  you  had  met  her,  as  one  still  might,  in  the  right  kind 
of  house  in  Paris — I  should  be  the  last  to  object  to  your 
visiting  her.  But  in  the  country  it's  different.  Even 
the  best  provincial  society  is  what  you  would  call 
narrow :  I  don't  deny  it ;  and  if  some  of  our  friends . 
met  Madame  de  Vireville  at  Givre — well,  it  would  pro 
duce  a  bad  impression.  You're  inclined  to  ridicule  such 
considerations,  but  gradually  you'll  come  to  see  their  im 
portance;  and  meanwhile,  do  trust  me  when  I  ask 
you  to  be  guided  by  my  mother.  It  is  always  well 

[93] 


THE     REEF 

for  a  stranger  in  an  old  society  to  err  a  little  on  the  side  of 
what  you  call  its  prejudices  but  I  should  rather  describe 
as  its  traditions." 

After  that  she  no  longer  tried  to  laugh  or  argue  her 
husband  out  of  his  convictions.  They  were  convictions, 
and  therefore  unassailable.  Nor  was  any  insincerity  im 
plied  in  the  fact  that  they  sometimes  seemed  to  coincide 
with  hers.  There  were  occasions  when  he  really  did 
look  at  things  as  she  did ;  but  for  reasons  so  different  as 
to  make  the  distance  between  them  all  the  greater.  Life, 
to  Mr.  Leath,  was  like  a  walk  through  a  carefully  classi 
fied  museum,  where,  in  moments  of  doubt,  one  had  only 
to  look  at  the  number  and  refer  to  one's  catalogue ;  to  his 
wife  it  was  like  groping  about  in  a  huge  dark  lumber- 
room  where  the  exploring  ray  of  curiosity  lit  up  now 
some  shape  of  breathing  beauty  and  now  a  mummy's 
grin. 

In  the  first  bewilderment  of  her  new  state  these  dis 
coveries  had  had  the  effect  of  dropping  another  layer  of 
gauze  between  herself  and  reality.  She  seemed  farther 
than  ever  removed  from  the  strong  joys  and  pangs  for 
which  she  felt  herself  made.  She  did  not  adopt  her  hus 
band's  views,  but  insensibly  she  began  to  live  his  life.  She 
tried  to  throw  a  compensating  ardour  into  the  secret  ex 
cursions  of  her  spirit,  and  thus  the  old  vicious  distinction 
between  romance  and  reality  was  re-established  for  her, 
and  she  resigned  herself  again  to  the  belief  that  "real 
life"  was  neither  real  nor  alive. 

The  birth  of  her  little  girl  swept  away  this  delusion. 
At  last  she  felt  herself  in  contact  with  the  actual  business 
of  living:  but  even  this  impression  was  not  enduring. 

[94] 


THE     REEF 

Everything  but  the  irreducible  crude  fact  of  child-bear 
ing  assumed,  in  the  Leath  household,  the  same  ghostly 
tinge  of  unreality.  Her  husband,  at  the  time,  was  all  that 
his  own  ideal  of  a  husband  required.  He  was  attentive, 
and  even  suitably  moved;  but  as  he  sat  by  her  bedside, 
and  thoughtfully  proffered  to  her  the  list  of  people  who 
had  "called  to  enquire",  she  looked  first  at  him,  and  then 
at  the  child  between  them,  and  wondered  at  the  blunder 
ing  alchemy  of  Nature  .  .  . 

With  the  exception  of  the  little  girl  herself,  everything 
connected  with  that  time  had  grown  curiously  remote 
and  unimportant.  The  days  that  had  moved  so  slowly 
as  they  passed  seemed  now  to  have  plunged  down  head 
long  steeps  of  time;  and  as  she  sat  in  the  autumn  sun, 
with  Darrow's  letter  in  her  hand,  the  history  of  Anna 
Leath  appeared  to  its  heroine  like  some  grey  shadowy  tale 
that  she  might  have  read  in  an  old  book,  one  night  as  she 
was  falling  asleep  .  .  . 


X 


TWO  brown  blurs  emerging  from  the  farther  end 
of  the  wood-vista  gradually  defined  themselves  as 
her  step-son  and  an  attendant  game-keeper.  They  grew 
slowly  upon  the  bluish  background,  with  occasional  delays 
and  re-effacements,  and  she  sat  still,  waiting  till  they 
should  reach  the  gate  at  the  end  of  the  drive,  where  the 
keeper  would  turn  off  to  his  cottage  and  Owen  continue 
on  to  the  house. 

She  watched  his  approach  with  a  smile.    From  the  first 

[95] 


THE     REEF 

days  of  her  marriage  she  had  been  drawn  to  the  boy, 
but  it  was  not  until  after  Effie's  birth  that  she  had  really 
begun  to  know  him.  The  eager  observation  of  her  own 
child  had  shown  her  how  much  she  had  still  to  learn 
about  the  slight  fair  boy  whom  the  holidays  periodically 
restored  to  Givre.  Owen,  even  then,  both  physically  and 
morally,  furnished  her  with  the  oddest  of  commentaries 
on  his  father's  mien  and  mind.  He  would  never,  the 
family  sighingly  recognized,  be  nearly  as  handsome  as 
Mr.  Leath;  but  his  rather  charmingly  unbalanced  face, 
with  its  brooding  forehead  and  petulant  boyish  smile, 
suggested  to  Anna  what  his  father's  countenance  might 
have  been  could  one  have  pictured  its  neat  features  dis 
ordered  by  a  rattling  breeze.  She  even  pushed  the  anal 
ogy  farther,  and  descried  in  her  step-son's  mind  a  quaint 
ly-twisted  reflection  of  her  husband's.  With  his  bursts 
of  door-slamming  activity,  his  fits  of  bookish  indolence, 
his  crude  revolutionary  dogmatizing  and  his  flashes  of 
precocious  irony,  the  boy  was  not  unlike  a  boisterous 
embodiment  of  his  father's  theories.  It  was  as  though 
Fraser  Leath's  ideas,  accustomed  to  hang  like  marionettes 
on  their  pegs,  should  suddenly  come  down  and  walk. 
There  were  moments,  indeed,  when  Owen's  humours 
must  have  suggested  to  his  progenitor  the  gambols  of  an 
infant  Frankenstein ;  but  to  Anna  they  were  the  voice  of 
her  secret  rebellions,  and  her  tenderness  to  her  step-son 
was  partly  based  on  her  severity  toward  herself.  As  he 
had  the  courage  she  had  lacked,  so  she  meant  him  to 
have  the  chances  she  had  missed ;  and  every  effort  she 
made  for  him  helped  to  keep  her  own  hopes  alive. 

Her  interest  in  Owen  led  her  to  think  more  often  of  his 

[96] 


THE     REEF 

mother,  and  sometimes  she  would  slip  away  and  stand 
alone  before  her  predecessor's  portrait.  Since  her  arrival 
at  Givre  the  picture — a  "full-length"  by  a  once  fash 
ionable  artist — had  undergone  the  successive  displace 
ments  of  an  exiled  consort  removed  farther  and  farther 
from  the  throne;  and  Anna  could  not  help  noting  that 
these  stages  coincided  with  the  gradual  decline  of 
the  artist's  fame.  She  had  a  fancy  that  if  his  credit  had 
been  in  the  ascendant  the  first  Mrs.  Leath  might  have 
continued  to  throne  over  the  drawing-room  mantel-piece, 
even  to  the  exclusion  of  her  successor's  effigy.  Instead 
of  this,  her  peregrinations  had  finally  landed  her  in  the 
shrouded  solitude  of  the  billiard-room,  an  apartment 
which  no  one  ever  entered,  but  where  it  was  understood 
that  "the  light  was  better,"  or  might  have  been  if  the 
shutters  had  not  been  always  closed. 

Here  the  poor  lady,  elegantly  dressed,  and  seated  in 
the  middle  of  a  large  lonely  canvas,  in  the  blank  contem 
plation  of  a  gilt  console,  had  always  seemed  to  Anna  to  be 
waiting  for  visitors  who  never  came. 

"Of  course  they  never  came,  you  poor  thing!  I  won 
der  how  long  it  took  you  to  find  out  that  they  never 
would?"  Anna  had  more  than  once  apostrophized  her, 
with  a  derision  addressed  rather  to  herself  than  to  the 
dead ;  but  it  was  only  after  Effie's  birth  that  it  occurred 
to  her  to  study  more  closely  the  face  in  the  picture,  and 
speculate  on  the  kind  of  visitors  that  Owen's  mother 
might  have  hoped  for. 

"She  certainly  doesn't  look  as  if  they  would  have  been 
the  same  kind  as  mine :  but  there's  no  telling,  from  a  por 
trait  that  was  so  obviously  done  'to  please  the  family', 

[97] 


THE     REEF 

and  that  leaves  Owen  so  unaccounted  for.  Well,  they 
never  came,  the  visitors ;  they  never  came ;  and  she  died 
of  it.  She  died  of  it  long  before  they  buried  her:  I'm 
certain  of  that.  Those  are  stone-dead  eyes  in  the  pic 
ture  .  .  .  The  loneliness  must  have  been  awful,  if  even 
Owen  couldn't  keep  her  from  dying  of  it.  And  to  feel  it 
so  she  must  have  had  feelings — real  live  ones,  the  kind 
that  twitch  and  tug.  And  all  she  had  to  look  at  all  her 
life  was  a  gilt  console — yes,  that's  it,  a  gilt  console 
screwed  to  the  wall !  That's  exactly  and  absolutely  what 
he  is!" 

She  did  not  mean,  if  she  could  help  it,  that  either  Effie 
or  Owen  should  know  that  loneliness,  or  let  her  know  it 
again.  They  were  three,  now,  to  keep  each  other  warm, 
and  she  embraced  both  children  in  the  same  passion  of 
motherhood,  as  though  one  were  not  enough  to  shield  her 
from  her  predecessor's  fate. 

Sometimes  she  fancied  that  Owen  Leath's  response 
was  warmer  than  that  of  her  own  child.  But  then  Effie 
was  still  hardly  more  than  a  baby,  and  Owen,  from  the 
first,  had  been  almost  "old  enough  to  understand" :  cer 
tainly  did  understand  now,  in  a  tacit  way  that  yet  per 
petually  spoke  to  her.  This  sense  of  his  understanding 
was  the  deepest  element  in  their  feeling  for  each  other. 
There  were  so  many  things  between  them  that  were 
never  spoken  of,  or  even  indirectly  alluded  to,  yet  that, 
even  in  their  occasional  discussions  and  differences, 
formed  the  unadduced  arguments  making  for  final  agree 
ment  .  .  . 

Musing  on  this,  she  continued  to  watch  his  approach ; 
and  her  heart  began  to  beat  a  little  faster  at  the  thought 

[98] 


THE     REEF 

of  what  she  had  to  say  to  him.  But  when  he  reached 
the  gate  she  saw  him  pause,  and  after  a  moment  he 
turned  aside  as  if  to  gain  a  cross-road  through  the 
park. 

She  started  up  and  waved  her  sunshade,  but  he  did  not 
see  her.  No  doubt  he  meant  to  go  back  with  the  game 
keeper,  perhaps  to  the  kennels,  to  see  a  retriever  who  had 
hurt  his  leg.  Suddenly  she  was  seized  by  the  whim  to 
overtake  him.  She  threw  down  the  parasol,  thrust  her 
letter  into  her  bodice,  and  catching  up  her  skirts  began 
to  run. 

She  was  slight  and  light,  with  a  natural  ease  and  quick 
ness  of  gait,  but  she  could  not  recall  having  run  a  yard 
since  she  had  romped  with  Owen  in  his  school-days ;  nor 
did  she  know  what  impulse  moved  her  now.  She  only 
knew  that  run  she  must,  that  no  other  motion,  short  of 
flight,  would  have  been  buoyant  enough  for  her  humour. 
She  seemed  to  be  keeping  pace  with  some  inward  rhythm, 
seeking  to  give  bodily  expression  to  the  lyric  rush  of  her 
thoughts.  The  earth  always  felt  elastic  under  her,  and 
she  had  a  conscious  joy  in  treading  it ;  but  never  had  it 
been  as  soft  and  springy  as  today.  It  seemed  actually 
to  rise  and  meet  her  as  she  went,  so  that  she  had  the  feel 
ing,  which  sometimes  came  to  her  in  dreams,  of  skimming 
miraculously  over  short  bright  waves.  The  air,  too, 
seemed  to  break  in  waves  against  her,  sweeping  by  on 
its  current  all  the  slanted  lights  and  moist  sharp  per 
fumes  of  the  failing  day.  She  panted  to  herself :  "This 
is  nonsense !"  her  blood  hummed  back :  "But  it's  glori 
ous  !"  and  she  sped  on  till  she  saw  that  Owen  had  caught 
sight  of  her  and  was  striding  back  in  her  direction. 

[99] 


THE     REEF 

Then  she  stopped  and  waited,  flushed  and  laughing,  her 
hands  clasped  against  the  letter  in  her  breast. 

"No,  I'm  not  mad,"  she  called  out ;  "but  there's  some 
thing  in  the  air  today — don't  you  feel  it  ? — And  I  wanted 
to  have  a  little  talk  with  you,"  she  added  as  he  came  up  to 
her,  smiling  at  him  and  linking  her  arm  in  his. 

He  smiled  back,  but  above  the  smile  she  saw  the  shade 
of  anxiety  which,  for  the  last  two  months,  had  kept  its 
fixed  line  between  his  handsome  eyes. 

"Owen,  don't  look  like  that!  I  don't  want  you  to!" 
she  said  imperiously. 

He  laughed.  "You  said  that  exactly  like  Effie.  What 
do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  To  race  with  you  as  I  do  Effie  ? 
But  I  shouldn't  have  a  show !"  he  protested,  still  with 
the  little  frown  between  his  eyes. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked. 

"To  the  kennels.  But  there's  not  the  least  need.  The 
vet  has  seen  Garry  and  he's  all  right.  If  there's  any 
thing  you  wanted  to  tell  me " 

"Did  I  say  there  was?  I  just  came  out  to  meet  you — I 
wanted  to  know  if  you'd  had  good  sport." 

The  shadow  dropped  on  him  again.  "None  at  all. 
The  fact  is  I  didn't  try.  Jean  and  I  have  just  been 
knocking  about  in  the  woods.  I  wasn't  in  a  sanguinary 
mood." 

They  walked  on  with  the  same  light  gait,  so  nearly 
of  a  height  that  keeping  step  came  as  naturally  to  them 
as  breathing.  Anna  stole  another  look  at  the  young  face 
on  a  level  with  her  own. 

"You  did  say  there  was  something  you  wanted  to  tell 
me,"  her  step-son  began  after  a  pause. 

[100] 


THE     REEF 

"Well,  there  is."  She  slackened  her  pace  involuntarily, 
and  they  came  to  a  pause  and  stood  facing  each  other  un 
der  the  limes. 

"Is  Darrow  coming?"  he  asked. 

She  seldom  blushed,  but  at  the  question  a  sudden  heat 
suffused  her.  She  held  her  head  high. 

"Yes :  he's  coming.  I've  just  heard.  He  arrives  to 
morrow.  But  that's  not •"  She  saw  her  blunder  and 

tried  to  rectify  it.  "Or  rather,  yes,  in  a  way  it  is  my  rea 
son  for  wanting  to  speak  to  you " 

"Because  he's  coming?" 

"Because  he's  not  yet  here." 

"It's  about  him,  then?" 

He  looked  at  her  kindly,  half-humourously,  an  almost 
fraternal  wisdom  in  his  smile. 

"About ?  No,  no  :  I  meant  that  I  wanted  to  speak 

today  because  it's  our  last  day  alone  together." 

"Oh,  I  see."  He  had  slipped  his  hands  into  the  pock 
ets  of  his  tweed  shooting  jacket  and  lounged  along  at  her 
side,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  moist  ruts  of  the  drive,  as 
though  the  matter  had  lost  all  interest  for  him. 

"Owen " 

He  stopped  again  and  faced  her.  "Look  here,  my  dear, 
it's  no  sort  of  use." 

"What's  no  use?" 

"Anything  on  earth  you  can  any  of  you  say." 

She  challenged  him :  "Am  /  one  of  'any  of  you'  ?" 

He  did  not  yield.  "Well,  then — anything  on  earth  that 
even  you  can  say." 

"You  don't  in  the  least  know  what  I  can  say — or  what 
I  mean  to." 

[101] 


THE     REEF 

"Don't  I,  generally?5' 

She  gave  him  this  point,  but  only  to  make  another. 
"Yes ;  but  this  is  particularly.  I  want  to  say  .  .  .  Owen, 
you've  been  admirable  all  through." 

He  broke  into  a  laugh  in  which  the  odd  elder-brotherly 
note  was  once  more  perceptible. 

"Admirable,"  she  emphasized.    "And  so  has  she" 

"Oh,  and  so  have  you  to  her!"  His  voice  broke  down 
to  boyishness.  "I've  never  lost  sight  of  that  for  a  minute. 
It's  been  altogether  easier  for  her,  though,"  he  threw  off 
presently. 

"On  the  whole,  I  suppose  it  has.  Well "  she 

summed  up  with  a  laugh,  "aren't  you  all  the  bet 
ter  pleased  to  be  told  you've  behaved  as  well  as 
she?" 

"Oh,  you  know,  I've  not  done  it  for  you,"  he  tossed 
back  at  her,  without  the  least  note  of  hostility  in  the 
affected  lightness  of  his  tone. 

"Haven't  you,  though,  perhaps — the  least  bit?  Be 
cause,  after  all,  you  knew  I  understood?" 

"You've  been  awfully  kind  about  pretending  to." 

She  laughed.  "You  don't  believe  me?  You  must  re 
member  I  had  your  grandmother  to  consider." 

"Yes:  and  my  father — and  Effie,  I  suppose — and  the 
outraged  shades  of  Givre !"  He  paused,  as  if  to  lay  more 
stress  on  the  boyish  sneer:  "Do  you  likewise  include 
the  late  Monsieur  de  Chantelle  ?" 

His  step-mother  did  not  appear  to  resent  the  thrust. 
She  went  on,  in  the  same  tone  of  affectionate  persuasion : 
"Yes :  I  must  have  seemed  to  you  too  subject  to  Givre. 
Perhaps  I  have  been.  But  you  know  that  was  not  my 

[  102] 


THE     REEF 

real  object  in  asking  you  to  wait,  to  say  nothing  to  your 
grandmother  before  her  return." 

He  considered.  "Your  real  object,  of  course,  was  to 
gain  time." 

"Yes — but  for  whom?    Why  not  for  you?" 

"For  me?"  He  flushed  up  quickly.  "You  don't 
mean ?" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked  gravely  into 
his  handsome  eyes. 

"I  mean  that  when  your  grandmother  gets  back  from 
Ouchy  I  shall  speak  to  her " 

"You'll  speak  to  her  ...  ?" 

"Yes ;  if  only  you'll  promise  to  give  me  time " 

"Time  for  her  to  send  for  Adelaide  Painter  ?" 

"Oh,  she'll  undoubtedly  send  for  Adelaide  Painter!" 

The  allusion  touched  a  spring  of  mirth  in  both  their 
minds,  and  they  exchanged  a  laughing  look. 

"Only  you  must  promise  not  to  rush  things.  You  must 
give  me  time  to  prepare  Adelaide  too,"  Mrs.  Leath  went 
on. 

"Prepare  her  too  ?"  He  drew  away  for  a  better  look  at 
her.  "Prepare  her  for  what?" 

"Why,  to  prepare  your  grandmother!  For  your  mar 
riage.  Yes,  that's  what  I  mean.  I'm  going  to  see  you 
through,  you  know " 

His  feint  of  indifference  broke  down  and  he  caught 

her  hand.    "Oh,  you  dear  divine  thing!    I  didn't  dream 
»> 

"I  know  you  didn't"  She  dropped  her  gaze  and  began 
to  walk  on  slowly.  "I  can't  say  you've  convinced  me  of 
the  wisdom  of  the  step.  Only  I  seem  to  see  that  other 


THE     REEF 

things  matter  more — and  that  not  missing  things  matters 
most.  Perhaps  I've  changed — or  your  not  changing  has 
convinced  me.  I'm  certain  now  that  you  won't  budge. 
And  that  was  really  all  I  ever  cared  about." 

"Oh,  as  to  not  budging — I  told  you  so  months  ago :  you 
might  have  been  sure  of  that !  And  how  can  you  be  any 
surer  today  than  yesterday  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  one  learns  something  every 
day " 

"Not  at  Givre !"  he  laughed,  and  shot  a  half-ironic  look 
at  her.  "But  you  haven't  really  been  at  Givre  lately — 
not  for  months  !  Don't  you  suppose  I've  noticed  that,  my 
dear?" 

She  echoed  his  laugh  to  merge  it  in  an  undenying  sigh. 
"Poor  Givre  .  .  ." 

"Poor  empty  Givre !  With  so  many  rooms  full  and  yet 
not  a  soul  in  it — except  of  course  my  grandmother,  who 
is  its  soul !" 

They  had  reached  the  gateway  of  the  court  and  stood 
looking  with  a  common  accord  at  the  long  soft-hued 
fagade  on  which  the  autumn  light  was  dying.  "It  looks 
so  made  to  be  happy  in "  she  murmured. 

"Yes — today,  today!"  He  pressed  her  arm  a  little. 
"Oh,  you  darling — to  have  given  it  that  look  for  me!" 
He  paused,  and  then  went  on  in  a  lower  voice:  "Don't 
you  feel  we  owe  it  to  the  poor  old  place  to  do  what  we 
can  to  give  it  that  look  ?  You,  too,  I  mean  ?  Come,  let's 
make  it  grin  from  wing  to  wing!  I've  such  a  mad 
desire  to  say  outrageous  things  to  it — haven't  you  ?  After 
all,  in  old  times  there  must  have  been  living  people 
here !" 

[104] 


THE     REEF 

Loosening  her  arm  from  his  she  continued  to  gaze 
up  at  the  house-front,  which  seemed,  in  the  plaintive 
decline  of  light,  to  send  her  back  the  mute  appeal  of 
something  doomed. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  she  said. 

"A  beautiful  memory !  Quite  perfect  to  take  out  and 
turn  over  when  I'm  grinding  at  the  law  in  New  York, 

and  you're "  He  broke  off  and  looked  at  her  with  a 

questioning  smile.  "Come  !  Tell  me.  You  and  I  don't 
have  to  say  things  to  talk  to  each  other.  When  you  turn 
suddenly  absent-minded  and  mysterious  I  always  feel  like 
saying:  'Come  back.  All  is  discovered'." 

She  returned  his  smile.  "You  know  as  much  as  I 
know.  I  promise  you  that." 

He  wavered,  as  if  for  the  first  time  uncertain  how  far 
he  might  go.  "I  don't  know  Darrow  as  much  as  you 
know  him,"  he  presently  risked. 

She  frowned  a  little.  "You  said  just  now  we  didn't 
need  to  say  things " 

"Was  /  speaking?  I  thought  it  was  your  eyes " 

He  caught  her  by  both  elbows  and  spun  her  halfway 
round,  so  that  the  late  sun  shed  a  betraying  gleam  on  her 
face.  "They're  such  awfully  conversational  eyes !  Don't 
you  suppose  they  told  me  long  ago  why  it's  just  today 
you've  made  up  your  mind  that  people  have  got  to  live 
their  own  lives — even  at  Givre  ?" 


THE     REEF 


XI 


THIS  is  the  south  terrace,"  Anna  said.  "Should  you 
like  to  walk  down  to  the  river  ?" 

She  seemed  to  listen  to  herself  speaking  from  a  far- 
off  airy  height,  and  yet  to  be  wholly  gathered  into  the 
circle  of  consciousness  which  drew  its  glowing  ring  about 
herself  and  Darrow.  To  the  aerial  listener  her  words 
sounded  flat  and  colourless,  but  to  the  self  within  the 
ring  each  one  beat  with  a  separate  heart. 

It  was  the  day  after  Darrow's  arrival,  and  he  had  come 
down  early,  drawn  by  the  sweetness  of  the  light  on  the 
lawns  and  gardens  below  his  window.  Anna  had  heard 
the  echo  of  his  step  on  the  stairs,  his  pau^e  in  the  stone- 
flagged  hall,  his  voice  as  he  asked  a  servant  where  to  find 
her.  She  was  at  the  end  of  the  house,  in  the  brown- 
panelled  sitting-room  which  she  frequented  at  that  sea 
son  because  it  caught  the  sunlight  first  and  kept  it  longest. 
She  stood  near  the  window,  in  the  pale  band  of  brightness, 
arranging  some  salmon-pink  geraniums  in  a  shallow 
porcelain  bowl.  Every  sensation  of  touch«-and  sight  was 
thrice-alive  in  her.  The  grey-green  fur  of  the  geranium 
leaves  caressed  her  fingers  and  the  sunlight  wavering 
across  the  irregular  surface  of  the  old  parquet  floor  made 
it  seem  as  bright  and  shifting  as  the  brown  bed  of  a 
stream. 

Darrow  stood  framed  in  the  door-way  of  the  farthest 
drawing-room,  a  light-grey  figure  against  the  black  and 
white  flagging  of  the  hall;  then  he  began  to  move  to- 

[106] 


THE     REEF 

ward  her  down  the  empty  pale-panelled  vista,  crossing 
one  after  another  the  long  reflections  which  a  projecting 
cabinet  or  screen  cast  here  and  there  upon  the  shining 
floors. 

As  he  drew  nearer,  his  figure  was  suddenly  displaced 
by  that  of  her  husband,  whom,  from  the  same  point,  she 
had  so  often  seen  advancing  down  the  same  perspective. 
Straight,  spare,  erect,  looking  to  right  and  left  with  quick 
precise  turns  of  the  head,  and  stopping  now  and  then  to 
straighten  a  chair  or  alter  the  position  of  a  vase,  Fraser 
Leath  used  to  march  toward  her  through  the  double  file 
of  furniture  like  a  general  reviewing  a  regiment  drawn  up 
for  his  inspection.  At  a  certain  point,  midway  across  the 
second  room,  he  always  stopped  before  the  mantel-piece 
of  pinkish-yellow  marble  and  looked  at  himself  in  the 
tall  garlanded  glass  that  surmounted  it.  She  could  not 
remember  that  he  had  ever  found  anything  to  straighten 
or  alter  in  his  own  studied  attire,  but  she  had  never 
known  him  to  omit  the  inspection  when  he  passed  that 
particular  mirror. 

When  it  was  over  he  continued  more  briskly  on  his 
way,  and  the  resulting  expression  of  satisfaction  was  still 
on  his  face  when  he  entered  the  oak  sitting-room  to  greet 
his  wife  .  .  . 

The  spectral  projection  of  this  little  daily  scene  hung 
but  for  a  moment  before  Anna,  but  in  that  moment  she 
had  time  to  fling  a  wondering  glance  across  the  distance 
between  her  past  and  present.  Then  the  footsteps  of  the 
present  came  close,  and  she  had  to  drop  the  geraniums  to 
give  her  hand  to  Darrow  .  .  . 

"Yes,  let  us  walk  down  to  the  river." 
8  [107] 


The; 
to  eacl 


THE     REEF 


They  had  neither  of  them,  as  yet,  found  much  to  say 
to  each  other.  Darrow  had  arrived  late  on  the  previous 
afternoon,  and  during  the  evening  they  had  had  between 
them  Owen  Leath  and  their  own  thoughts.  Now  they 
were  alone  for  the  first  time  and  the  fact  was  enough  in 
itself.  Yet  Anna  was  intensely  aware  that  as  soon  as 
they  began  to  talk  more  intimately  they  would  feel  that 
they  knew  each  other  less  well. 

They  passed  out  onto  the  terrace  and  down  the  steps 
to  the  gravel  walk  below.  The  delicate  frosting  of  dew 
gave  the  grass  a  bluish  shimmer,  and  the  sunlight,  slid 
ing  in  emerald  streaks  along  the  tree-boles,  gathered 
itself  into  great  luminous  blurs  at  the  end  of  the  wood- 
walks,  and  hung  above  the  fields  a  watery  glory  like 
the  ring  about  an  autumn  moon. 

"It's  good  to  be  here,"  Darrow  said. 

They  took  a  turn  to  the  left  and  stopped  for  a  moment 
to  look  back  at  the  long  pink  house-front,  plainer, 
friendlier,  less  adorned  than  on  the  side  toward  the  court. 
So  prolonged  yet  delicate  had  been  the  friction  of  time 
upon  its  bricks  that  certain  expanses  had  the  bloom  and 
texture  of  old  red  velvet,  and  the  patches  of  gold  lichen 
spreading  over  them  looked  like  the  last  traces  of  a  dim 
embroidery.  The  dome  of  the  chapel,  with  its  gilded 
cross,  rose  above  one  wing,  and  the  other  ended  in  a 
conical  pigeon-house,  above  which  the  birds  were  flying, 
lustrous  and  slatey,  their  breasts  merged  in  the  blue  of 
the  roof  when  they  dropped  down  on  it. 

"And  this  is  where  you've  been  all  these  years." 

They  turned  away  and  began  to  walk  down  a  long 
tunnel  of  yellowing  trees.  Benches  with  mossy  feet  stood 

[108] 


THE     REEF 

against  the  mossy  edges  of  the  path,  and  at  its  farther 
end  it  widened  into  a  circle  about  a  basin  rimmed  with 
stone,  in  which  the  opaque  water  «strewn  with  leaves 
looked  like  a  slab  of  gold-flecked  agate.  The  path,  grow 
ing  narrower,  wound  on  circuitously  through  the  woods, 
between  slender  serried  trunks  twined  with  ivy.  Patches 
of  blue  appeared  above  them  through  the  dwindling 
leaves,  and  presently  the  trees  drew  back  and  showed  the 
open  fields  along  the  river. 

They  walked  on  across  the  fields  to  the  tow-path.  In 
a  curve  of  the  wall  some  steps  led  up  to  a  crumbling  pa 
vilion  with  openings  choked  with  ivy.  Anna  and  Darrow 
seated  themselves  on  the  bench  projecting  from  the  inner 
wall  of  the  pavilion  and  looked  across  the  river  at  the 
slopes  divided  into  blocks  of  green  and  fawn-colour,  and 
at  the  chalk-tinted  village  lifting  its  squat  church-tower 
and  grey  roofs  against  the  precisely  drawn  lines  of  the 
landscape.  Anna  sat  silent,  so  intensely  aware  of  Dar- 
row's  nearness  that  there  was  no  surprise  in  the  touch 
he  laid  on  her  hand.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and  he 
smiled  and  said:  "There  are  to  be  no  more  obstacles 
now." 

"Obstacles?"  The  word  startled  her.  "What  ob 
stacles?" 

"Don't  you  remember  the  wording  of  the  telegram 
that  turned  me  back  last  May?  'Unforeseen  obstacle': 
that  was  it.  What  was  the  earth-shaking  problem,  by  the 
way?  Finding  a  governess  for  Effie,  wasn't  it?" 

"But  I  gave  you  my  reason :  the  reason  why  it  was  an 
obstacle.  I  wrote  you  fully  about  it." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  did."  He  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed 
[109] 


THE     REEF 

it.    "How  far  off  it  all  seems,  and  how  little  it  all  mat 
ters  today !" 

She  looked  at  him  quickly.  "Do  you  feel  that  ?  I  sup 
pose  I'm  different.  I  want  to  draw  all  those  wasted 
months  into  today — to  make  them  a  part  of  it." 

"But  they  are,  to  me.  You  reach  back  and  take  every 
thing — back  to  the  first  days  of  all." 

She  frowned  a  little,  as  if  struggling  with  an  inarticu 
late  perplexity.  "It's  curious  how,  in  those  first  days,  too, 
something  that  I  didn't  understand  came  between  us." 
"Oh,  in  those  days  we  neither  of  us  understood, 
did  we?  It's  part  of  what's  called  the  bliss  of  being 
young." 

"Yes,  I  thought  that,  too :  thought  it,  I  mean,  in  look 
ing  back.  But  it  couldn't,  even  then,  have  been  as  true 
of  you  as  of  me ;  and  now " 

"Now,"  he  said,  "the  only  thing  that  matters  is  that 
we're  sitting  here  together." 

He  dismissed  the  rest  with  a  lightness  that  might  have 
seemed  conclusive  evidence  of  her  power  over  him.  But 
she  took  no  pride  in  such  triumphs.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  wanted  his  allegiance  and  his  adoration  not  so 
much  for  herself  as  for  their  mutual  love,  and  that  in 
treating  lightly  any  past  phase  of  their  relation  he  took 
something  from  its  present  beauty.  The  colour  rose  to 
her  face. 

"Between  you  and  me  everything  matters." 

"Of  course!"  She  felt  the  unperceiving  sweetness  of 
his  smile.  "That's  why,"  he  went  on,  "  'everything,'  for 
me,  is  here  and  now:  on  this  bench,  between  you  and 
me." 

[no] 


THE     REEF 

She  caught  at  the  phrase.  "That's  what  I  meant :  it's 
here  and  now ;  we  can't  get  away  from  it." 

"Get  away  from  it?    Do  you  want  to?    Again?" 

Her  heart  was  beating  unsteadily.  Something  in  her, 
fitfully  and  with  reluctance,  struggled  to  free  itself,  but 
the  warmth  of  his  nearness  penetrated  every  sense  as  the 
sunlight  steeped  the  landscape.  Then,  suddenly,  she  felt 
that  she  wanted  no  less  than  the  whole  of  her  happiness. 

"  'Again'?    But  wasn't  it  you,  the  last  time ?" 

She  paused,  the  tremor  in  her  of  Psyche  holding  up 
the  lamp.  But  in  the  interrogative  light  of  her  pause  her 
companion's  features  underwent  no  change. 

"The  last  time?  Last  spring?  But  it  was  you  who — 
for  the  best  of  reasons,  as  you've  told  me — turned  me 
back  from  your  very  door  last  spring!" 

She  saw  that  he  was  good-humouredly  ready  to 
"thresh  out,"  for  her  sentimental  satisfaction,  a  question 
which,  for  his  own,  Time  had  so  conclusively  dealt  with ; 
and  the  sense  of  his  readiness  reassured  her. 

"I  wrote  as  soon  as  I  could,"  she  rejoined.  "I  ex 
plained  the  delay  and  asked  you  to  come.  And  you  never 
even  answered  my  letter." 

"It  was  impossible  to  come  then.  I  had  to  go  back  to 
my  post." 

"And  impossible  to  write  and  tell  me  so?" 

"Your  letter  was  a  long  time  coming.  I  had  waited 
a  week — ten  days.  I  had  some  excuse  for  thinking,  when 
it  came,  that  you  were  in  no  great  hurry  for  an  an 
swer." 

"You  thought  that — really — after  reading  it  ?" 

"I  thought  it." 

[in] 


THE     REEF 

Her  heart  leaped  up  to  her  throat.  "Then  why  are  you 
here  today  ?" 

He  turned  on  her  with  a  quick  look  of  wonder.  "God 
knows — if  you  can  ask  me  that !" 

"You  see  I  was  right  to  say  I  didn't  understand." 

He  stood  up  abruptly  and  stood  facing  her,  blocking 
the  view  over  the  river  and  the  checkered  slopes.  "Per 
haps  I  might  say  so  too." 

"No,  no :  we  must  neither  of  us  have  any  reason  for 
saying  it  again."  She  looked  at  him  gravely.  "Surely 
you  and  I  needn't  arrange  the  lights  before  we  show 
ourselves  to  each  other.  I  want  you  to  see  me  just  as  I 
am,  with  all  my  irrational  doubts  and  scruples;  the  old 
ones  and  the  new  ones  too." 

He  came  back  to  his  seat  beside  her.  "Never  mind  the 
old  ones.  They  were  justified — I'm  willing  to  admit  it. 
With  the  governess  having  suddenly  to  be  packed  off, 
and  Effie  on  your  hands,  and  your  mother-in-law  ill,  I 
see  the  impossibility  of  your  letting  me  come.  I  even  see 
that,  at  the  moment,  it  was  difficult  to  write  and  explain. 
But  what  does  all  that  matter  now?  The  new  scruples 
are  the  ones  I  want  to  tackle." 

Again  her  heart  trembled.  She  felt  her  happiness  so 
near,  so  sure,  that  to  strain  it  closer  might  be  like  a 
child's  crushing  a  pet  bird  in  its  caress.  But  her  very 
security  urged  her  on.  For  so  long  her  doubts  had 
been  knife-edged :  now  they  had  turned  into  bright 
harmless  toys  that  she  could  toss  and  catch  without 
peril ! 

"You  didn't  come,  and  you  didn't  answer  my  letter; 
and  after  waiting  four  months  I  wrote  another." 

[112] 


THE     REEF 

"And  I  answered  that  one ;  and  I'm  here." 

"Yes."  She  held  his  eyes.  "But  in  my  last  letter  I 
repeated  exactly  what  I'd  said  in  the  first — the  one  I 
wrote  you  last  June.  I  told  you  then  that  I  was  ready  to 
give  you  the  answer  to  what  you'd  asked  me  in  London ; 
and  in  telling  you  that,  I  told  you  what  the  answer 
was." 

"My  dearest !    My  dearest !"  Darrow  murmured. 

"You  ignored  that  letter.  All  summer  you  made  no 
sign.  And  all  I  ask  now  is  that  you  should  frankly  tell 
me  why." 

"I  can  only  repeat  what  I've  just  said.  I  was  hurt  and 
unhappy  and  I  doubted  you.  I  suppose  if  I'd  cared  less 
I  should  have  been  more  confident.  I  cared  so  much  that 
I  couldn't  risk  another  failure.  For  you'd  made  me  feel 
that  I'd  miserably  failed.  So  I  shut  my  eyes  and  set  my 
teeth  and  turned  my  back.  There's  the  whole  pusillani 
mous  truth  of  it !" 

"Oh,  if  it's  the  whole  truth !"  She  let  him  clasp 

her.  "There's  my  torment,  you  see.  I  thought  that  was 
what  your  silence  meant  till  I  made  you  break  it.  Now 
I  want  to  be  sure  that  I  was  right." 

"What  can  I  tell  you  to  make  you  sure  ?" 

"You  can  let  me  tell  you  everything  first."  She  drew 
away,  but  without  taking  her  hands  from  him.  "Owen 
saw  you  in  Paris,"  she  began. 

She  looked  at  him  and  he  faced  her  steadily.  The 
light  was  full  on  his  pleasantly-browned  face,  his  grey 
eyes,  his  frank  white  forehead.  She  noticed  for  the  first 
time  a  seal-ring  in  a  setting  of  twisted  silver  on  the  hand 
he  had  kept  on  hers. 


: 


THE     REEF 


"In  Paris?    Oh,  yes  ...  So  he  did." 

"He  came  back  and  told  me.  I  think  you  talked  to  him 
a  moment  in  a  theatre.  I  asked  if  you'd  spoken  of  my 
having  put  you  off — or  if  you'd  sent  me  any  message. 
He  didn't  remember  that  you  had." 

"In  a  crush — in  a  Paris  foyer?    My  dear !" 

"It  was  absurd  of  me !  But  Owen  and  I  have  always 
been  on  odd  kind  of  brother-and-sister  terms.  I  think 
he  guessed  about  us  when  he  saw  you  with  me  in  Lon 
don.  So  he  teased  me  a  little  and  tried  to  make  me 
curious  about  you;  and  when  he  saw  he'd  succeeded  he 
told  me  he  hadn't  had  time  to  say  much  to  you  because 
you  were  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the  lady  you  were 
with." 

He  still  held  her  hands,  but  she  felt  no  tremor  in  his, 
and  the  blood  did  not  stir  in  his  brown  cheek.  He 
seemed  to  be  honestly  turning  over  his  memories. 

"Yes :  and  what  else  did  he  tell  you  ?" 

"Oh,  not  much,  except  that  she  was  awfully  pretty. 
When  I  asked  him  to  describe  her  he  said  you  had  her 
tucked  away  in  a  baignoire  and 'he  hadn't  actually  seen 
her ;  but  he  saw  the  tail  of  her  cloak,  and  somehow  knew 
from  that  that  she  was  pretty.  One  does,  you  know  .  .  . 
I  think  he  said  the  cloak  was  pink." 

Darrow  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Of  course  it  was — they 
always  are!  So  that  was  at  the  bottom  of  your 
doubts?" 

"Not  at  first.     I  only  laughed.     But  afterward,  when 

I  wrote  you  and  you  didn't  answer Oh,  you  do  see?" 

she  appealed  to  him. 

He  was  looking  at  her  gently.    "Yes :  I  see." 
[H4] 


THE     REEF 

"It's  not  as  if  this  were  a  light  thing  between 
us.  I  want  you  to  know  me  as  I  am.  If  I  thought  that 
at  that  moment  .  .  .  when  you  were  on  your  way  here, 
almost " 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  stood  up.  "Yes,  yes — I 
understand." 

"But  do  you?"  Her  look  followed  him.  "I'm  not  a 
goose  of  a  girl.  I  know  ...  of  course  I  know  .  .  . 
but  there  are  things  a  woman  feels  .  .  .  when  what  she 
knows  doesn't  make  any  difference.  It's  not  that  I 
want  you  to  explain — I  mean  about  that  particular  even 
ing.  It's  only  that  I  want  you  to  have  the  whole  of  my 
feeling.  I  didn't  know  what  it  was  till  I  saw  you  again. 
I  never  dreamed  I  should  say  such  things  to  you !" 

"I  never  dreamed  I  should  be  here  to  hear  you  say 
them!"  He  turned  back  and  lifting  a  floating  end  of 
her  scarf  put  his  lips  to  it.  "But  now  that  you  have, 
/  know — /  know,"  he  smiled  down  at  her. 

"You  know ?" 

"That  this  is  no  light  thing  between  us.  Now  you  may 
ask  me  anything  you  please !  That  was  all  I  wanted  to 
ask  you!' 

For  a  long  moment  they  looked  at  each  other  without 
speaking.  She  saw  the  dancing  spirit  in  his  eyes  turn 
grave  and  darken  to  a  passionate  sternness.  He  stooped 
and  kissed  her,  and  she  sat  as  if  folded  in  wings. 


THE     REEF 


XII 


IT  was  in  the  natural  order  of  things  that,  on  the  way 
back  to  the  house,  their  talk  should  have  turned  to 
the  future. 

Anna  was  not  eager  to  define  it.  She  had  an  extraordi 
nary  sensitiveness  to  the  impalpable  elements  of  happi 
ness,  and  as  she  walked  at  Darrow's  side  her  imagination 
flew  back  and  forth,  spinning  luminous  webs  of  feeling 
between  herself  and  the  scene  about  her.  Every  height 
ening  of  emotion  produced  for  her  a  new  effusion  of 
beauty  in  visible  things,  and  with  it  the  sense  that  such 
moments  should  be  lingered  over  and  absorbed  like  some 
unrenewable  miracle.  She  understood  Darrow's  im 
patience  to  see  their  plans  take  shape.  She  knew  it  must 
be  so,  she  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise ;  but  to  reach 
a  point  where  she  could  fix  her  mind  on  his  appeal  for 
dates  and  decisions  was  like  trying  to  break  her  way 
through  the  silver  tangle  of  an  April  wood. 

Darrow  wished  to  use  his  diplomatic  opportunities  as 
a  means  of  studying  certain  economic  and  social  problems 
with  which  he  presently  hoped  to  deal  in  print ;  and  with 
this  in  view  he  had  asked  for,  and  obtained,  a  South 
American  appointment.  Anna  was  ready  to  follow 
where  he  led,  and  not  reluctant  to  put  new  sights  as  well 
as  new  thoughts  between  herself  and  her  past.  She  had, 
in  a  direct  way,  only  Effie  and  Effie's  education  to  con 
sider;  and  there  seemed,  after  due  reflection,  no  reason 
why  the  most  anxious  regard  for  these  should  not  be 

[116] 


THE     REEF 

conciliated  with  the  demands  of  Darrow's  career.  Effie, 
it  was  evident,  could  be  left  to  Madame  de  Chantelle's 
care  till  the  couple  should  have  organized  their  life ;  and 
she  might  even,  as  long  as  her  future  step-father's  work 
retained  him  in  distant  posts,  continue  to  divide  her  year 
between  Givre  and  the  antipodes. 

As  for  Owen,  who  had  reached  his  legal  majority  two 
years  before,  and  was  soon  to  attain  the  age  fixed  for  the 
taking  over  of  his  paternal  inheritance,  the  arrival  of  this 
date  would  reduce  his  step-mother's  responsibility  to  a 
friendly  concern  for  his  welfare.  This  made  for  the 
prompt  realization  of  Darrow's  wishes,  and  there  seemed 
no  reason  why  the  marriage  should  not  take  place  within 
the  six  weeks  that  remained  of  his  leave. 

They  passed  out  of  the  wood-walk  into  the  open  bright 
ness  of  the  garden.  The  noon  sunlight  sheeted  with  gold 
the  bronze  flanks  of  the  polygonal  yews.  Chrysanthe 
mums,  russet,  saffron  and  orange,  glowed  like  the  ef 
florescence  of  an  enchanted  forest;  belts  of  red  begonia 
purpling  to  wine-colour  ran  like  smouldering  flame 
among  the  borders ;  and  above  this  outspread  tapestry  the 
house  extended  its  harmonious  length,  the  soberness  of 
its  lines  softened  to  grace  in  the  luminous  misty  air. 

Darrow  stood  still,  and  Anna  felt  that  his  glance  was 
travelling  from  her  to  the  scene  about  them  and  then 
back  to  her  face. 

"You're  sure  you're  prepared  to  give  up  Givre?  You 
look  so  made  for  each  other !" 

"Oh,  Givre "  She  broke  off  suddenly,  feeling  as  if 

her  too  careless  tone  had  delivered  all  her  past  into  his 
hands ;  and  with  one  of  her  instinctive  movements  of  re- 


THE     REEF 

coil  she  added :  "When  Owen  marries  I  shall  have  to  give 
it  up." 

"When  Owen  marries?  That's  looking  some  distance 
ahead !  I  want  to  be  told  that  meanwhile  you'll  have  no 
regrets." 

She  hesitated.  Why  did  he  press  her  to  uncover  to  him 
her  poor  starved  past?  A  vague  feeling  of  loyalty,  a 
desire  to  spare  what  could  no  longer  harm  her,  made  her 
answer  evasively:  "There  will  probably  be  no  'mean 
while.'  Owen  may  marry  before  long." 

She  had  not  meant  to  touch  on  the  subject,  for  her  step 
son  had  sworn  her  to  provisional  secrecy;  but  since  the 
shortness  of  Darrow's  leave  necessitated  a  prompt  ad 
justment  of  their  own  plans,  it  was,  after  all,  inevitable 
that  she  should  give  him  at  least  a  hint  of  Owen's. 

"Owen  marry?  Why,  he  always  seems  like  a  faun  in 
flannels !  I  hope  he's  found  a  dryad.  There  might  easily 
be  one  left  in  these  blue-and-gold  woods." 

"I  can't  tell  you  yet  where  he  found  his  dryad,  but 
she  is  one,  I  believe:  at  any  rate  she'll  become  the 
Givre  woods  better  than  I  do.  Only  there  may  be  dif 
ficulties " 

"Well !  At  that  age  they're  not  always  to  be  wished 
away." 

She  hesitated.  "Owen,  at  any  rate,  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  overcome  them;  and  I've  promised  to  see  him 
through." 

She  went  on,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  to  ex 
plain  that  her  step-son's  choice  was,  for  various  reasons, 
not  likely  to  commend  itself  to  his  grandmother.  "She 
must  be  prepared  for  it,  and  I've  promised  to  do  the  pre- 

[118] 


THE     REEF 

paring.  You  know  I  always  have  seen  him  through 
things,  and  he  rather  counts  on  me  now." 

She  fancied  that  Darrow's  exclamation  had  in  it  a  faint 
note  of  annoyance,  and  wondered  if  he  again  suspected 
her  of  seeking  a  pretext  for  postponement. 

"But  once  Owen's  future  is  settled,  you  won't,  surely, 
for  the  sake  of  what  you  call  seeing  him  through,  ask 
that  I  should  go  away  again  without  you?"  He  drew 
her  closer  as  they  walked.  "Owen  will  understand, 
if  you  don't.  Since  he's  in  the  same  case  himself  I'll 
throw  myself  on  his  mercy.  He'll  see  that  I  have  the 
first  claim  on  you;  he  won't  even  want  you  not  to  see 
it." 

"Owen  sees  everything:  I'm  not  afraid  of  that.  But 
his  future  isn't  settled.  He's  very  young  to  marry — too 
young,  his  grandmother  is  sure  to  think — and  the  mar 
riage  he  wants  to  make  is  not  likely  to  convince  her  to  the 
contrary." 

"You  don't  mean  that  it's  like  his  first  choice?" 

"Oh,  no !  But  it's  not  what  Madame  de  Chantelle 
would  call  a  good  match ;  it's  not  even  what  I  call  a  wise 
one." 

"Yet  you're  backing  him  up  ?" 

"Yet  I'm  backing  him  up."  She  paused.  "I  wonder  if 
you'll  understand  ?  What  I've  most  wanted  for  him,  and 
shall  want  for  Effie,  is  that  they  shall  always  feel  free  to 
make  their  own  mistakes,  and  never,  if  possible,  be  per 
suaded  to  make  other  people's.  Even  if  Owen's  marriage 
is  a  mistake,  and  has  to  be  paid  for,  I  believe  he'll  learn 
and  grow  in  the  paying.  Of  course  I  can't  make  Madame 
de  Chantelle  see  this;  but  I  can  remind  her  that,  with 


THE     REEF 

his  character — his  big  rushes  of  impulse,  his  odd  in 
tervals  of  ebb  and  apathy — she  may  drive  him  into  some 
worse  blunder  if  she  thwarts  him  now." 

"And  you  mean  to  break  the  news  to  her  as  soon  as 
she  comes  back  from  Ouchy  ?" 

"As  soon  as  I  see  my  way  to  it.  She  knows  the  girl 
and  likes  her:  that's  our  hope.  And  yet  it  may,  in 
the  end,  prove  our  danger,  make  it  harder  for  us  all, 
when  she  learns  the  truth,  than  if  Owen  had  chosen 
a  stranger.  I  can't  tell  you  more  till  I've  told  her: 
I've  promised  Owen  not  to  tell  any  one.  All  I  ask  you  is 
to  give  me  time,  to  give  me  a  few  days  at  any  rate.  She's 
been  wonderfully  'nice,'  as  she  would  call  it,  about  you, 
and  about  the  fact  of  my  having  soon  to  leave  Givre ;  but 
that,  again,  may  make  it  harder  for  Owen.  At  any  rate, 
you  can  see,  can't  you,  how  it  makes  me  want  to  stand 
by  him  ?  You  see,  I  couldn't  bear  it  if  the  least  fraction 
of  my  happiness  seemed  to  be  stolen  from  his — as  if  it 
were  a  little  scrap  of  happiness  that  had  to  be  pieced 
out  with  other  people's!"  She  clasped  her  hands  on 
Darrow's  arm.  "I  want  our  life  to  be  like  a  house  with 
all  the  windows  lit:  I'd  like  to  string  lanterns  from  the 
roof  and  chimneys !" 

She  ended  with  an  inward  tremor.  All  through  her 
exposition  and  her  appeal  she  had  told  herself  that  the 
moment  could  hardly  have  been  less  well  chosen.  In 
Darrow's  place  she  would  have  felt,  as  he  doubtless  did, 
that  her  carefully  developed  argument  was  only  the  dis 
guise  of  an  habitual  indecision.  It  was  the  hour  of  all 
others  when  she  would  have  liked  to  affirm  herself  by 
brushing  aside  every  obstacle  to  his  wishes;  yet  it  was 

[120] 


THE     REEF 

only  by  opposing  them  that  she  could  show  the  strength 
of  character  she  wanted  him  to  feel  in  her. 

But  as  she  talked  she  began  to  see  that  Darrow's  face 
gave  back  no  reflection  of  her  words,  that  he  continued 
to  wear  the  abstracted  look  of  a  man  who  is  not  listening 
to  what  is  said  to  him.  It  caused  her  a  slight  pang  to 
discover  that  his  thoughts  could  wander  at  such  a  mo 
ment  ;  then,  with  a  flush  of  joy  she  perceived  the  reason. 

In  some  undefinable  way  she  had  become  aware,  with 
out  turning  her  head,  that  he  was  steeped  in  the  sense  of 
her  nearness,  absorbed  in  contemplating  the  details  of  her 
face  and  dress ;  and  the  discovery  made  the  words  throng 
to  her  lips.  She  felt  herself  speak  with  ease,  authority, 
conviction.  She  said  to  herself :  "He  doesn't  care  what  I 
say — it's  enough  that  I  say  it — even  if  it's  stupid  he'll 
like  me  better  for  it  .  .  . "  She  knew  that  every  in 
flexion  of  her  voice,  every  gesture,  every  characteristic  of 
her  person — its  very  defects,  the  fact  that  her  forehead 
was  too  high,  that  her  eyes  were  not  large  enough,  that 
her  hands,  though  slender,  were  not  small,  and  that  the 
fingers  did  not  taper — she  knew  that  these  deficiencies 
were  so  many  channels  through  which  her  influence 
streamed  to  him ;  that  she  pleased  him  in  spite  of  them, 
perhaps  because  of  them ;  that  he  wanted  her  as  she  was, 
and  not  as  she  would  have  liked  to  be;  and  for  the  first 
time  she  felt  in  her  veins  the  security  and  lightness  of 
happy  love. 

They  reached  the  court  and  walked  under  the  limes 
toward  the  house.  The  hall  door  stood  wide,  and 
through  the  windows  opening  on  the  terrace  the  sun 
slanted  across  the  black  and  white  floor,  the  faded  tap- 

[121] 


THE     REEF 

estry  chairs,  and  Darrow's  travelling  coat  and  cap,  which 
lay  among  the  cloaks  and  rugs  piled  on  a  bench  against 
the  wall. 

The  sight  of  these  garments,  lying  among  her  own 
wraps,  gave  her  a  sense  of  homely  intimacy.  It  was  as 
if  her  happiness  came  down  from  the  skies  and  took  on 
the  plain  dress  of  daily  things.  At  last  she  seemed  to 
hold  it  in  her  hand. 

As  they  entered  the  hall  her  eye  lit  on  an  unstamped 
note  conspicuously  placed  on  the  table. 

"From  Owen!  He  must  have  rushed  off  somewhere 
in  the  motor." 

She  felt  a  secret  stir  of  pleasure  at  the  immediate  in 
ference  that  she  and  Darrow  would  probably  lunch  alone. 
Then  she  opened  the  note  and  stared  at  it  in  wonder. 

"Dear,"  Owen  wrote,  "after  what  you  said  yesterday  I 
can't  wait  another  hour,  and  I'm  of!  to  Francheuil,  to 
catch  the  Dijon  express  and  travel  back  with  them.  Don't 
be  frightened;  I  won't  speak  unless  it's  safe  to.  Trust 
me  for  that — but  I  had  to  go." 

She  looked  up  slowly. 

"He's  gone  to  Dijon  to  meet  his  grandmother.  Oh,  I 
hope  I  haven't  made  a  mistake !" 

"You?  Why,  what  have  you  to  do  with  his  going  to 
Dijon?" 

She  hesitated.  "The  day  before  yesterday  I  told  him, 
for  the  first  time,  that  I  meant  to  see  him  through,  no 
matter  what  happened.  And  I'm  afraid  he's  lost  his 
head,  and  will  be  imprudent  and  spoil  things.  You  see, 
I  hadn't  meant  to  say  a  word  to  him  till  I'd  had  time  to 
prepare  Madame  de  Chantelle." 

[122] 


THE     REEF 

She  felt  that  Darrow  was  looking  at  her  and  reading 
her  thoughts,  and  the  colour  flew  to  her  face.  "Yes:  it 
was  when  I  heard  you  were  coming  that  I  told  him.  I 
wanted  him  to  feel  as  I  felt  ...  it  seemed  too  unkind 
to  make  him  wait !" 

Her  hand  was  in  his,  and  his  arm  rested  for  a  moment 
on  her  shoulder. 

"It  would  have  been  too  unkind  to  make  him  wait." 

They  moved  side  by  side  toward  the  stairs.  Through 
the  haze  of  bliss  enveloping  her,  Owen's  affairs  seemed 
curiously  unimportant  and  remote.  Nothing  really 
mattered  but  this  torrent  of  light  in  her  veins.  She  put 
her  foot  on  the  lowest  step,  saying :  "It's  nearly  luncheon 
time — I  must  take  off  my  hat  ..."  and  as  she  started 
up  the  stairs  Darrow  stood  below  in  the  hall  and  watched 
her.  But  the  distance  between  them  did  not  make  him 
seem  less  near :  it  was  as  if  his  thoughts  moved  with 
her  and  touched  her  like  endearing  hands. 

In  her  bedroom  she  shut  the  door  and  stood  still,  look 
ing  about  her  in  a  fit  of  dreamy  wonder.  Her  feelings 
were  unlike  any  she  had  ever  known :  richer,  deeper,  more 
complete.  For  the  first  time  everything  in  her,  from  head 
to  foot,  seemed  to  be  feeding  the  same  full  current  of 
sensation. 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  went  to  the  dressing-table  to 
smooth  her  hair.  The  pressure  of  the  hat  had  flattened 
the  dark  strands  on  her  forehead ;  her  face  was  paler  than 
usual,  with  shadows  about  the  eyes.  She  felt  a  pang  of 
regret  for  the  wasted  years.  "If  I  look  like  this  today," 
she  said  to  herself,  "what  will  he  think  of  me  when  I'm 
ill  or  worried?"  She  began  to  run  her  fingers  through 
9  [  I23  ] 


THE     REEF 

her  hair,  rejoicing  in  its  thickness;  then  she  desisted 
and  sat  still,  resting  her  chin  on  her  hands. 
"I  want  him  to  see  me  as  I  am,"  she  thought. 
Deeper  than  the  deepest  fibre  of  her  vanity  was  the  tri 
umphant  sense  that  as  she  was,  with  her  flattened  hair, 
her  tired  pallor,  her  thin  sleeves  a  little  tumbled  by  the 
weight  of  her  jacket,  he  would  like  her  even  better,  feel 
her  nearer,  dearer,  more  desirable,  than  in  all  the  splen 
dours  she  might  put  on  for  him.  In  the  light  of  this  dis 
covery  she  studied  her  face  with  a  new  intentness,  seeing 
its  defects  as  she  had  never  seen  them,  yet  seeing  them 
through  a  kind  of  radiance,  as  though  love  were  a  lumi 
nous  medium  into  which  she  had  been  bodily  plunged. 

She  was  glad  now  that  she  had  confessed  her  doubts 
and  her  jealousy.  She  divined  that  a  man  in  love  may 
be  flattered  by  such  involuntary  betrayals,  that  there  are 
moments  when  respect  for  his  liberty  appeals  to  him  less 
than  the  inability  to  respect  it:  moments  so  propitious 
that  a  woman's  very  mistakes  and  indiscretions  may  help 
to  establish  her  dominion.  The  sense  of  power  she  had 
been  aware  of  in  talking  to  Darrow  came  back  with  ten 
fold  force.  She  felt  like  testing  him  by  the  most  fantas 
tic  exactions,  and  at  the  same  moment  she  longed  to 
humble  herself  before  him,  to  make  herself  the  shadow 
and  echo  of  his  mood.  She  wanted  to  linger  with  him  in 
a  world  of  fancy  and  yet  to  walk  at  his  side  in  the  world 
of  fact.  She  wanted  him  to  feel  her  power  and  yet  to 
love  her  for  her  ignorance  and  humility.  She  felt  like  a 
slave,  and  a  goddess,  and  a  girl  in  her  teens  .  .  . 


THE     REEF 


XIII 

D  ARROW,  late  that  evening,  threw  himself  into  an 
armchair  before  his  fire  and  mused. 

The  room  was  propitious  to  meditation.  The  red-veiled 
lamp,  the  corners  of  shadow,  the  splashes  of  firelight  on  \jf 
the  curves  of  old  full-bodied  wardrobes  and  cabinets,  '  ^ 
gave  it  an  air  of  intimacy  increased  by  its  faded  hang 
ings,  its  slightly  frayed  and  threadbare  rugs.  Every 
thing  in  it  was  harmoniously  shabby,  with  a  subtle 
sought-for  shabbiness  in  which  Darrow  fancied  he  dis 
cerned  the  touch  of  Fraser  Leath.  But  Fraser  Leath  had 
grown  so  unimportant  a  factor  in  the  scheme  of  things 
that  these  marks  of  his  presence  caused  the  young  man 
no  emotion  beyond  that  of  a  faint  retrospective  amuse 
ment. 

The  afternoon  and  evening  had  been  perfect. 

After  a  moment  -of  concern  over  her  step-son's  de 
parture,  Anna  had  surrendered  herself  to  her  happiness 
with  an  impetuosity  that  Darrow  had  never  suspected 
in  her.  Early  in  the  afternoon  they  had  gone  out  in 
the  motor,  traversing  miles  of  sober-tinted  landscape 
in  which,  here  and  there,  a  scarlet  vineyard  flamed,  clat 
tering  through  the  streets  of  stony  villages,  coming  out 
on  low  slopes  above  the  river,  or  winding  through  the 
pale  gold  of  narrow  wood-roads  with  the  blue  of  clear- 
cut  hills  at  their  end.  Over  everything  lay  a  faint 
sunshine  that  seemed  dissolved  in  the  still  air,  and 
the  smell  of  wet  roots  and  decaying  leaves  was  merged 


. 

THE     REEF 

in  the  pungent  scent  of  burning  underbrush.  Once,  at 
the  turn  of  a  wall,  they  stopped  the  motor  before  a 
ruined  gateway  and,  stumbling  along  a  road  full  of  ruts, 
stood  before  a  little  old  deserted  house,  fantastically 
carved  and  chimneyed,  which  lay  in  a  moat  under  the 
shade  of  ancient  trees.  They  paced  the  paths  between  the 
trees,  found  a  mouldy  Temple  of  Love  on  an  islet  among 
reeds  and  plantains,  and,  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  stable- 
yard,  watched  the  pigeons  circling  against  the  sunset 
over  their  cot  of  patterned  brick.  Then  the  motor  flew 
on  into  the  dusk  .  .  . 

When  they  came  in  they  sat  beside  the  fire  in  the  oak 
drawing-room,  and  Darrow  noticed  how  delicately  her 
head  stood  out  against  the  sombre  panelling,  and  mused 
on  the  enjoyment  there  would  always  be  in  the  mere  fact 
of  watching  her  hands  as  they  moved  about  among  the 
tea-things  .  .  . 

They  dined  late,  and  facing  her  across  the  table,  with 
its  low  lights  and  flowers,  he  felt  an  extraordinary 
pleasure  in  seeing  her  again  in  evening  dress,  and  in 
letting  his  eyes  dwell  on  the  proud  shy  set  of  her  head, 
the  way  her  dark  hair  clasped  it,  and  the  girlish  thinness 
of  her  neck  above  the  slight  swell  of  the  breast.  His 
imagination  was  struck  by  the  quality  of  reticence  in  her 
beauty.  She  suggested  a  fine  portrait  kept  down  to  a  few 
tones,  or  a  Greek  vase  on  which  the  play  of  light  is  the 
only  pattern. 

After  dinner  they  went  out  on  the  terrace  for  a  look 
at  the  moon-misted  park.  Through  the  crepuscular 
whiteness  the  trees  hung  in  blotted  masses.  Below  the 
terrace,  the  garden  drew  its  dark  diagrams  between  stat- 


THE     REEF 

ues  that  stood  like  muffled  conspirators  on  the  edge  of  the 
shadow.  Farther  off,  the  meadows  unrolled  a  silver-shot 
tissue  to  the  mantling  of  mist  above  the  river;  and  the 
autumn  stars  trembled  overhead  like  their  own  reflec 
tions  seen  in  dim  water. 

He  lit  his  cigar,  and  they  walked  slowly  up  and  down 
the  flags  in  the  languid  air,  till  he  put  an  arm  about  her, 
saying:  "You  mustn't  stay  till  you're  chilled";  then  they 
went  back  into  the  room  and  drew  up  their  chairs  to  the 
fire. 

It  seemed  only  a  moment  later  that  she  said :  "It  must 
be  after  eleven,"  and  stood  up  and  looked  down  on  him, 
smiling  faintly.  He  sat  still,  absorbing  the  look,  and 
thinking:  "There'll  be  evenings  and  evenings" — till  she 
came  nearer,  bent  over  him,  and  with  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder  said :  "Good  night." 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  put  his  arms  about  her. 

"Good  night,"  he  answered,  and  held  her  fast ;  and  they 
gave  each  other  a  long  kiss  of  promise  and  commun 
ion. 

The  memory  of  it  glowed  in  him  still  as  he  sat  over 
his  crumbling  fire;  but  beneath  his  physical  exultation 
he  felt  a  certain  gravity  of  mood.  His  happiness  was 
in  some  sort  the  rallying-point  of  many  scattered  pur 
poses.  He  summed  it  up  vaguely  by  saying  to  himself 
that  to  be  loved  by  a  woman  like  that  made  "all  the  dif 
ference"  ...  He  was  a  little  tired  of  experimenting  on 
life;  he  wanted  to  "take  a  line",  to  follow  things  up, 
to  centralize  and  concentrate,  and  produce  results. 
Two  or  three  more  years  of  diplomacy — with  her  be 
side  him! — and  then  their  real  life  would  begin:  study, 

[127] 


THE     REEF 

travel  and  book-making  for  him,  and  for  her — well,  the 
joy,  at  any  rate,  of  getting  out  of  an  atmosphere  of  bric- 
a-brac  and  card-leaving  into  the  open  air  of  competing 
activities. 

The  desire  for  change  had  for  some  time  been  latent 
in  him,  and  his  meeting  with  Mrs.  Leath  the  previous 
spring  had  given  it  a  definite  direction.  With  such  a 
comrade  to  focus  and  stimulate  his  energies  he  felt 
modestly  but  agreeably  sure  of  "doing  something".  And 
under  this  assurance  was  the  lurking  sense  that  he  was 
somehow  worthy  of  his  opportunity.  His  life,  on  the 
whole,  had  been  a  creditable  affair.  Out  of  modest 
chances  and  middling  talents  he  had  built  himself  a 
fairly  marked  personality,  known  some  exceptional  peo 
ple,  done  a  number  of  interesting  and  a  few  rather  diffi 
cult  things,  and  found  himself,  at  thirty-seven,  possessed 
of  an  intellectual  ambition  sufficient  to  occupy  the  passage 
to  a  robust  and  energetic  old  age.  As  for  the  private 
and  personal  side  of  his  life,  it  had  come  up  to  the  cur 
rent  standards,  and  if  it  had  dropped,  now  and  then,  be 
low  a  more  ideal  measure,  even  these  declines  had  been 
brief,  parenthetic,  incidental.  In  the  recognized  es 
sentials  he  had  always  remained  strictly  within  the  limit 
of  his  scruples. 

From  this  reassuring  survey  of  his  case  he  came  back 
to  the  contemplation  of  its  crowning  felicity.  His  mind 
turned  again  to  his  first  meeting  with  Anna  Summers 
and  took  up  one  by  one  the  threads  of  their  faintly 
sketched  romance.  He  dwelt  with  pardonable  pride  on 
the  fact  that  fate  had  so  early  marked  him  for  the  high 
privilege  of  possessing  her :  it  seemed  to  mean  that  they 

t 


THE     REEF 

had  really,  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  ill-used  phrase,  been 
made  for  each  other. 

Deeper  still  than  all  these  satisfactions  was  the  mere  ele 
mental  sense  of  well-being  in  her  presence.  That,  after 
all,  was  what  proved  her  to  be  the  woman  for  him :  the 
pleasure  he  took  in  the  set  of  hJr  head,  the  way  her  hair 
grew  on  her  forehead  and  at  the  nape,  her  steady  gaze 
when  he  spoke,  the  grave  freedom  of  her  gait  and  ges 
tures.  He  recalled  every  detail  of  her  face,  the  fine  vein- 
ings  of  the  temples,  the  bluish-brown  shadows  in  her 
upper  lids,  and  the  way  the  reflections  of  two  stars  seemed 
to  form  and  break  up  in  her  eyes  when  he  held  her  close 
to  him  .  .  . 

If  he  had  had  any  doubt  as  to  the  nature  of  her  feeling 
for  him  those  dissolving  stars  would  have  allayed  it.  She 
was  reserved,  she  was  shy  even,  was  what  the  shallow 
and  effusive  would  call  "cold".  She  was  like  a  picture  so 
hung  that  it  can  be  seen  only  at  a  certain  angle :  an  angle 
known  to  no  one  but  its  possessor.  The  thought  flat 
tered  his  sense  of  possessorship  .  .  .  He  felt  that  the 
smile  on  his  lips  would  have  been  fatuous  had  it  had  a 
witness.  He  was  thinking  of  her  look  when  she  had 
questioned  him  about  his  meeting  with  Owen  at  the  the 
atre  :  less  of  her  words  than  of  her  look,  and  of  the  effort 
the  question  cost  her:  the  reddening  of  her  cheek,  the 
deepening  of  the  strained  line  between  her  brows,  the 
way  her  eyes  sought  shelter  and  then  turned  and  drew  on 
him.  Pride  and  passion  were  in  the  conflict — magnificent 
qualities  in  a  wife !  The  sight  almost  made  up  for  his 
momentary  embarrassment  at  the  rousing  of  a  memory 
which  had  no  place  in  his  present  picture  of  himself. 

[129] 


THE     REEF 

Yes !  It  was  worth  a  good  deal  to  watch  that  fight  be 
tween  her  instinct  and  her  intelligence,  and  know  one's 
self  the  object  of  the  struggle  .  .  . 

Mingled  with  these  sensations  were  considerations  of 
another  order.  He  reflected  with  satisfaction  that  she 
was  the  kind  of  woman  with  whom  one  would  like 
to  be  seen  in  public.  It  would  be  distinctly  agreeable 
to  follow  her  into  drawing-rooms,  to  walk  after  her  down 
the  aisle  of  a  theatre,  to  get  in  and  out  of  trains  with 
her,  to  say  "my  wife"  of  her  to  all  sorts  of  people.  He 
draped  these  details  in  the  handsome  phrase  "She's  a 
woman  to  be  proud  of",  and  felt  that  this  fact  somehow 
justified  and  ennobled  his  instinctive  boyish  satisfaction 
in  loving  her. 

He  stood  up,  rambled  across  the  room  and  leaned  out 
for  a  while  into  the  starry  night.  Then  he  dropped  again 
into  his  armchair  with  a  sigh  of  deep  content. 

"Oh,  hang  it,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "it's  the  best 
thing  that's  ever  happened  to  me,  anyhow !" 

The  next  day  was  even  better.  He  felt,  and  knew  she 
felt,  that  they  had  reached  a  clearer  understanding  of  each 
other.  It  was  as  if,  after  a  swim  through  bright  oppos 
ing  waves,  with  a  dazzle  of  sun  in  their  eyes,  they  had 
gained  an  inlet  in  the  shades  of  a  cliff,  where  they  could 
float  on  the  still  surface  and  gaze  far  down  into  the 
depths. 

Now  and  then,  as  they  walked  and  talked,  he  felt  a 
thrill  of  youthful  wonder  at  the  coincidence  of  their  views 
and  their  experiences,  at  the  way  their  minds  leapt  to  the 
same  point  in  the  same  instant. 

[130] 


THE     REEF 

"The  old  delusion,  I  suppose,"  he  smiled  to  himself. 
"Will  Nature  never  tire  of  the  trick  ?" 

But  he  knew  it  was  more  than  that.  There  were  mo 
ments  in  their  talk  when  he  felt,  distinctly  and  unmis 
takably,  the  solid  ground  of  friendship  underneath  the 
whirling  dance  of  his  sensations.  "How  I  should  like  her 
if  I  didn't  love  her !"  he  summed  it  up,  wondering  at  the 
miracle  of  such  a  union. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  a  telegram  had  come 
from  Owen  Leath,  announcing  that  he,  his  grandmother 
and  Effie  would  arrive  from  Dijon  that  afternoon  at  four. 
The  station  of  the  main  line  was  eight  or  ten  miles  from 
Givre,  and  Anna,  soon  after  three,  left  in  the  motor  to 
meet  the  travellers. 

When  she  had  gone  Darrow  started  for  a  walk,  plan 
ning  to  get  back  late,  in  order  that  the  reunited  family 
might  have  the  end  of  the  afternoon  to  themselves.  He 
roamed  the  country-side  till  long  after  dark,  and  the 
stable-clock  of  Givre  was  striking  seven  as  he  walked  up 
the  avenue  to  the  court. 

In  the  hall,  coming  down  the  stairs,  he  encountered 
Anna.  Her  face  was  serene,  and  his  first  glance  showed 
him  that  Owen  had  kept  his  word  and  that  none  of  her 
forebodings  had  been  fulfilled. 

She  had  just  come  down  from  the  school-room,  where 
Effie  and  the  governess  were  having  supper ;  the  little  girl, 
she  told  him,  looked  immensely  better  for  her  Swiss  holi 
day,  but  was  dropping  with  sleep  after  the  journey,  and 
too  tired  to  make  her  habitual  appearance  in  the  draw 
ing-room  before  being  put  to  bed.  Madame  de  Chan- 
telle  was  resting,  but  would  be  down  for  dinner ;  and  as 


THE     REEF 

for  Owen,  Anna  supposed  he  was  off  somewhere  in  the 
park — he  had  a  passion  for  prowling  about  the  park  at 
nightfall  .  .  . 

Darrow  followed  her  into  the  brown  room,  where  the 
tea-table  had  been  left  for  him.  He  declined  her  offer  of 
tea,  but  she  lingered  a  moment  to  tell  him  that  Owen 
had  in  fact  kept  his  word,  and  that  Madame  de  Chan- 
telle  had  come  back  in  the  best  of  humours,  and  unsus 
picious  of  the  blow  about  to  fall. 

"She  has  enjoyed  her  month  at  Ouchy,  and  it  has  given 
her  a  lot  to  talk  about — her  symptoms,  and  the  rival  doc 
tors,  and  the  people  at  the  hotel.  It  seems  she  met  your 
Ambassadress  there,  and  Lady  Wantley,  and  some  other 
London  friends  of  yours,  and  she's  heard  what  she  calls 
'delightful  things'  about  you :  she  told  me  to  tell  you  so. 
She  attaches  great  importance  to  the  fact  that  your  grand 
mother  was  an  Everard  of  Albany.  She's  prepared  to 
open  her  arms  to  you.  I  don't  know  whether  it  won't 
make  it  harder  for  poor  Owen  .  .  .  the  contrast,  I 
mean  .  .  .  There  are  no  Ambassadresses  or  Everards  to 
vouch  for  his  choice!  But  you'll  help  me,  won't  you? 
You'll  help  me  to  help  him  ?  To-morrow  I'll  tell  you  the 
rest.  Now  I  must  rush  up  and  tuck  in  Effie  .  .  .  " 

"Oh,  you'll  see,  we'll  pull  it  off  for  him!"  he  assured 
her ;  "together,  we  can't  fail  to  pull  it  off." 

He  stood  and  watched  her  with  a  smile  as  she  fled 
down  the  half-lit  vista  to  the  hall. 


THE     REEF 


XIV 


IF  Darrow,  on  entering  the  drawing-room  before  din 
ner,  examined  its  new  occupant  with  unusual  inter 
est,  it  was  more  on  Owen  Leath's  account  than  his  own. 

Anna's  hints  had  roused  his  interest  in  the  lad's  love 
affair,  and  he  wondered  what  manner  of  girl  the  heroine 
of  the  coming  conflict  might  be.  He  had  guessed  that 
Owen's  rebellion  symbolized  for  his  step-mother  her  own 
long  struggle  against  the  Leath  conventions,  and  he 
understood  that  if  Anna  so  passionately  abetted  him  it 
was  partly  because,  as  she  owned,  she  wanted  his  libera 
tion  to  coincide  with  hers. 

The  lady  who  was  to  represent,  in  the  impending 
struggle,  the  forces  of  order  and  tradition  was  seated 
by  the  fire  when  Darrow  entered.  Among  the  flowers  and 
old  furniture  of  the  large  pale-panelled  room,  Madame 
de  Chantelle  had  the  inanimate  elegance  of  a  figure  in 
troduced  into  a  "still-life"  to  give  the  scale.  And  this, 
Darrow  reflected,  was  exactly  what  she  doubtless  re 
garded  as  her  chief  obligation :  he  was  sure  she  thought 
a  great  deal  of  "measure",  and  approved  of  most  things 
only  up  to  a  certain  point. 

She  was  a  woman  of  sixty,  with  a  figure  at  once  young 
and  old-fashioned.  Her  fair  faded  tints,  her  quaint  cor 
seting,  the  passementerie  on  her  tight-waisted  dress,  the 
velvet  band  on  her  tapering  arm,  made  her  resemble  a 
"carte  de  visite"  photograph  of  the  middle  sixties.  One 
saw  her,  younger  but  no  less  invincibly  lady-like,  lean- 

[133] 


THE     REEF 

ing  on  a  chair  with  a  fringed  back,  a  curl  in  her  neck,  a 
locket  on  her  tuckered  bosom,  toward  the  end  of  an  em 
bossed  morocco  album  beginning  with  The  Beauties  of 
the  Second  Empire. 

She  received  her  daughter-in-law's  suitor  with  an  affa 
bility  which  implied  her  knowledge  and  approval  of  his 
suit.  Darrow  had  already  guessed  her  to  be  a  person  who 
would  instinctively  oppose  any  suggested  changes,  and 
then,  after  one  had  exhausted  one's  main  arguments,  un 
expectedly  yield  to  some  small  incidental  reason,  and 
adhere  doggedly  to  her  new  position.  She  boasted  of 
her  old-fashioned  prejudices,  talked  a  good  deal  of  be 
ing  a  grandmother,  and  made  a  show  of  reaching  up  to 
tap  Owen's  shoulder,  though  his  height  was  little  more 
than  hers. 

She  was  full  of  a  small  pale  prattle  about  the  peo 
ple  she  had  seen  at  Ouchy,  as  to  whom  she  had  the  mi 
nute  statistical  information  of  a  gazetteer,  without  any 
apparent  sense  of  personal  differences.  She  said  to  Dar 
row  :  "They  tell  me  things  are  very  much  changed  in 
America  ...  Of  course  in  my  youth  there  was  a  So 
ciety"  .  .  .  She  had  no  desire  to  return  there :  she  was 
sure  the  standards  must  be  so  different.  "There  are 
charming  people  everywhere  .  .  .  and  one  must  always 
look  on  the  best  side  .  .  .  but  when  one  has  lived  among 
Traditions  it's  difficult  to  adapt  one's  self  to  the  new 
ideas  .  .  .  These  dreadful  views  of  marriage  .  .  .  it's 
so  hard  to  explain  them  to  my  French  relations  .  .  .  I'm 
thankful  to  say  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  them  my 
self  !  But  you're  an  Everard — I  told  Anna  last  spring  in 
London  that  one  sees  that  instantly"  .  .  . 

[134] 


THE     REEF 

She  wandered  off  to  the  cooking  and  the  service  of  the 
hotel  at  Ouchy.  She  attached  great  importance  to  gas 
tronomic  details  and  to  the  manners  of  hotel  servants. 
There,  too,  there  was  a  falling  off,  she  said.  "I  don't 
know,  of  course ;  but  people  say  it's  owing  to  the  Ameri 
cans.  Certainly  my  waiter  had  a  way  of  slapping  down 
the  dishes  .  .  .  they  tell  me  that  many  of  them  are 
Anarchists  .  .  .  belong  to  Unions,  you  know."  She  ap 
pealed  to  Darrow's  reported  knowledge  of  economic  con 
ditions  to  confirm  this  ominous  rumour. 

After  dinner  Owen  Leath  wandered  into  the  next  room, 
where  the  piano  stood,  and  began  to  play  among  the 
shadows.  His  step-mother  presently  joined  him,  and 
Darrow  sat  alone  with  Madame  de  Chantelle. 

She  took  up  the  thread  of  her  mild  chat  and  carried 
it  on  at  the  same  pace  as  her  knitting.  Her  conversation 
resembled  the  large  loose-stranded  web  between  her  fin 
gers  :  now  and  then  she  dropped  a  stitch,  and  went  on  re 
gardless  of  the  gap  in  the  pattern. 

Darrow  listened  with  a  lazy  sense  of  well-being.  In 
the  mental  lull  of  the  after-dinner  hour,  with  harmonious 
memories  murmuring  through  his  mind,  and  the  soft  tints 
and  shadowy  spaces  of  the  fine  old  room  charming  his 
eyes  to  indolence,  Madame  de  Chantelle's  discourse 
seemed  not  out  of  place.  He  could  understand  that,  in  the 
long  run,  the  atmosphere  of  Givre  might  be  suffocating ; 
but  in  his  present  mood  its  very  limitations  had  a  grace. 

Presently  he  found  the  chance  to  say  a  word  in  his 
own  behalf ;  and  thereupon  measured  the  advantage,  never 
before  particularly  apparent  to  him,  of  being  related  to 
the  Everards  of  Albany.  Madame  de  Chantelle's  concep- 

[135] 


THE     REEF 

tion  of  her  native  country — to  which  she  had  not  returned 
since  her  twentieth  year — reminded  him  of  an  ancient 
geographer's  map  of  the  Hyperborean  regions.  It  was 
all  a  foggy  blank,  from  which  only  one  or  two  fixed  out 
lines  emerged ;  and  one  of  these  belonged  to  the  Everards 
of  Albany. 

The  fact  that  they  offered  such  firm  footing — formed, 
so  to  speak,  a  friendly  territory  on  which  the  opposing 
powers  could  meet  and  treat — helped  him  through  the 
task  of  explaining  and  justifying  himself  as  the  succes 
sor  of  Fraser  Leath.  Madame"  de  Chantelle  could  not  re 
sist  such  incontestable  claims.  She  seemed  to  feel  her 
son's  hovering  and  discriminating  presence,  and  she  gave 
Darrow  the  sense  that  he  was  being  tested  and  approved 
as  a  last  addition  to  the  Leath  Collection. 

She  also  made  him  aware  of  the  immense  advantage 
he  possessed  in  belonging  to  the  diplomatic  profession. 
She  spoke  of  this  humdrum  calling  as  a  Career,  arid  gave 
Darrow  to  understand  that  she  supposed  him  to  have 
been  seducing  Duchesses  when  he  was  not  negotiating 
Treaties.  He  heard  again  quaint  phrases  which  romantic 
old  ladies  had  used  in  his  youth:  "Brilliant  diplomatic 
society  .  .  .  social  advantages  .  .  .  the  entree  every 
where  .  .  .  nothing  else  forms  a  young  man  in  the  same 
way  .  .  .  "  and  she  sighingly  added  that  she  could  have 
wished  her  grandson  had  chosen  the  same  path  to  glory. 

Darrow  prudently  suppressed  his  own  view  of  the  pro 
fession,  as  well  as  the  fact  that  he  had  adopted  it  pro 
visionally,  and  for  reasons  less  social  than  sociological; 
and  the  talk  presently  passed  on  to  the  subject  of  his 
future  plans. 


THE     REEF 

Here  again,  Madame  de  Chantelle's  awe  of  the  Career 
made  her  admit  the  necessity  of  Anna's  consenting  to  an 
early  marriage.  The  fact  that  Darrow  was  "ordered"  to 
South  America  seemed  to  put  him  in  the  romantic  light 
of  a  young  soldier  charged  to  lead  a  forlorn  hope:  she 
sighed  and  said:  "At  such  moments  a  wife's  duty  is  at 
her  husband's  side." 

The  problem  of  Effie's  future  might  have  disturbed  her, 
she  added ;  but  since  Anna,  for  a  time,  consented  to  leave 
the  little  girl  with  her,  that  problem  was  at  any  rate  de 
ferred.  She  spoke  plaintively  of  the  responsibility  of 
looking  after  her  granddaughter,  but  Darrow  divined  that 
she  enjoyed  the  flavour  of  the  word  more  than  she  feit 
the  weight  of  the  fact. 

"Effie's  a  perfect  child.  She's  more  like  my  son,  per 
haps,  than  dear  Owen.  She'll  never  intentionally  give  me 
the  least  trouble.  But  of  course  the  responsibility  will  be 
great  .  .  .  I'm  not  sure  I  should  dare  to  undertake  it  if 
it  were  not  for  her  having  such  a  treasure  of  a  governess. 
Has  Anna  told  you  about  our  little  governess  ?  After  all 
the  worry  we  had  last  year,  with  one  impossible  creature 
after  another,  it  seems  providential,  just  now,  to  have 
found  her.  At  first  we  were  afraid  she  was  too  young; 
but  now  we've  the  greatest  confidence  in  her.  So  clever 
and  amusing — and  such  a  lady!  I  don't  say  her  educa 
tion's  all  it  might  be  ...  no  drawing  or  singing  .  .  .  but 
one  can't  have  everything ;  and  she  speaks  Italian  ..." 

Madame  de  Chantelle's  fond  insistence  on  the  likeness 
between  Effie  Leath  and  her  father,  if  not  particularly 
gratifying  to  Darrow,  had  at  least  increased  his  desire  to 
see  the  little  girl.  It  gave  him  an  odd  feeling  of  dis- 

[137] 


THE     REEF 

comfort  to  think  that  she  should  have  any  of  the  char 
acteristics  of  the  late  Fraser  Leath:  he  had,  somehow, 
fantastically  pictured  her  as  the  mystical  offspring  of 
the  early  tenderness  between  himself  and  Anna  Summers. 

His  encounter  with  Effie  took  place  the  next  morning, 
on  the  lawn  below  the  terrace,  where  he  found  her,  in  the 
early  sunshine,  knocking  about  golf  balls  with  her  brother. 
Almost  at  once,  and  with  infinite  relief,  he  saw  that  the 
resemblance  of  which  Madame  de  Chantelle  boasted  was 
mainly  external.  Even  that  discovery  was  slightly  dis 
tasteful,  though  Darrow  was  forced  to  own  that  Fraser 
Leath's  straight-featured  fairness  had  lent  itself  to  the 
production  of  a  peculiarly  finished  image  of  childish  pur 
ity.  But  it  was  evident  that  other  elements  had  also  gone 
to  the  making  of  Effie,  and  that  another  spirit  sat  in  her 
eyes.  Her  serious  handshake,  her  "pretty"  greeting,  were 
worthy  of  the  Leath  tradition,  and  he  guessed  her  to  be 
more  malleable  than  Owen,  more  subject  to  the  influences 
of  Givre ;  but  the  shout  with  which  she  returned  to  her 
romp  had  in  it  the  note  of  her  mother's  emancipation. 

He  had  begged  a  holiday  for  her,  and  when  Mrs.  Leath 
appeared  he  and  she  and  the  little  girl  went  off  for  a 
ramble.  Anna  wished  her  daughter  to  have  time  to 
make  friends  with  Darrow  before  learning  in  what  re 
lation  he  was  to  stand  to  her ;  and  the  three  roamed  the 
woods  and  fields  till  the  distant  chime  of  the  stable- 
clock  made  them  turn  back  for  luncheon. 

Effie,  who  was  attended  by  a  shaggy  terrier,  had  picked 
up  two  or  three  subordinate  dogs  at  the  stable;  and  as 
she  trotted  on  ahead  with  her  yapping  escort,  Anna  hung 
back  to  throw  a  look  at  Darrow. 


THE     KEEP 

"Yes,"  he  answered  it,  "she's  exquisite  .  .  .  Oh,  I  see 
what  I'm  asking  of  you !  But  she'll  be  quite  happy  here, 
won't  she?  And  you  must  remember  it  won't  be  for 
long  ..." 

Anna  sighed  her  acquiescence.  "Oh,  she'll  be  happy 
here.  It's  her  nature  to  be  happy.  She'll  apply  herself  to 
it,  conscientiously,  as  she  does  to  her  lessons,  and  to  what 
she  calls  'being  good'  ...  In  a  way,  you  see,  that's  just 
what  worries  me.  Her  idea  of  'being  good'  is  to  please 
the  person  she's  with — she  puts  her  whole  dear  little 
mind  on  it !  And  so,  if  ever  she's  with  the  wrong  per 
son " 

"But  surely  there's  no  danger  of  that  just  now?  Ma 
dame  de  Chantelle  tells  me  that  you've  at  last  put  your 
hand  on  a  perfect  governess " 

Anna,  without  answering,  glanced  away  from  him  to 
ward  her  daughter. 

"It's  lucky,  at  any  rate,"  Darrow  continued,  "that 
Madame  de  Chantelle  thinks  her  so." 

"Oh,  I  think  very  highly  of  her  too." 

"Highly  enough  to  feel  quite  satisfied  to  leave  her  with 
Effie?" 

"Yes.  She's  just  the  person  for  Effie.  Only,  of  course, 
one  never  knows  .  .  .  She's  young,  and  she  might  take 
it  into  her  head  to  leave  us  ..."  After  a  pause  she 
added:  "I'm  naturally  anxious  to  know  what  you  think 
of  her." 

When  they  entered  the  house  the  hands  of  the  hall  clock 

stood  within  a  few  minutes  of  the  luncheon  hour.    Anna 

led   Effie  off  to  have  her  hair  smoothed  and   Darrow 

wandered  into  the  oak  sitting-room,  which  he  found  un- 

10  [  139  ] 


THE     REEF 

tenanted.  The  sun  lay  pleasantly  on  its  brown  walls, 
on  the  scattered  books  and  the  flowers  in  old  porcelain 
vases.  In  his  eyes  lingered  the  vision  of  the  dark-haired 
mother  mounting  the  stairs  with  her  little  fair  daughter. 
The  contrast  between  them  seemed  a  last  touch  of  grace 
in  the  complex  harmony  of  things.  He  stood  in  the 
window,  looking  out  at  the  park,  and  brooding  inwardly 
upon  his  happiness  .  .  . 

He  was  roused  by  Effie's  voice  and  the  scamper  of  her 
feet  down  the  long  floors  behind  him. 

"Here  he  is!  Here  he  is!"  she  cried,  flying  over  the 
threshold. 

He  turned  and  stooped  to  her  with  a  smile,  and  as  she 
caught  his  hand  he  perceived  that  she  was  trying  to  draw 
him  toward  some  one  who  had  paused  behind  her  in  the 
doorway,  and  whom  he  supposed  to  be  her  mother. 

"Here  he  is !"  Effie  repeated,  with  her  sweet  impa 
tience. 

The  figure  in  the  doorway  came  forward  and  Darrow, 
looking  up,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Sophy  Viner. 
They  stood  still,  a  yard  or  two  apart,  and  looked  at  each 
other  without  speaking. 

As  they  paused  there,  a  shadow  fell  across  one  of  the 
terrace  windows,  and  Owen  Leath  stepped  whistling  into 
the  room.  In  his  rough  shooting  clothes,  with  the  glow 
of  exercise  under  his  fair  skin,  he  looked  extraordinarily 
light-hearted  and  happy.  Darrow,  with  a  quick  side- 
glance,  noticed  this,  and  perceived  also  that  the  glow  on 
the  youth's  cheek  had  deepened  suddenly  to  red.  He  too 
stopped  short,  and  the  three  stood  there  motionless  for  a 
barely  perceptible  beat  of  time.  During  its  lapse,  Dar- 

[140] 


THE     REEF 

row's  eyes  had  turned  back  from  Owen's  face  to  that  of 
the  girl  between  them.  He  had  the  sense  that,  whatever 
was  done,  it  was  he  who  must  do  it,  and  that  it  must  be 
done  immediately.  He  went  forward  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Viner  ?" 

She  answered:  "How  do  you  do?"  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  clear  and  natural;  and  the  next  moment  he 
again  became  aware  of  steps  behind  him,  and  knew  that 
Mrs.  Leath  was  in  the  room. 

To  his  strained  senses  there  seemed  to  be  another  just 
measurable  pause  before  Anna  said,  looking  gaily  about 
the  little  group :  "Has  Owen  introduced  you  ?  This  is 
Effie's  friend,  Miss  Viner." 

Effie,  still  hanging  on  her  governess's  arm,  pressed  her 
self  closer  with  a  little  gesture  of  appropriation;  and 
Miss  Viner  laid  her  hand  on  her  pupil's  hair. 

Darrow  felt  that  Anna's  eyes  had  turned  to  him. 

"I  think  Miss  Viner  and  I  have  met  already — several 
years  ago  in  London." 

"I  remember,"  said  Sophy  Viner,  in  the  same  clear 
voice. 

"How  charming !  Then  we're  all  friends.  But  lunch 
eon  must  be  ready,"  said  Mrs.  Leath. 

She  turned  back  to  the  door,  and  the  little  procession 
moved  down  the  two  long  drawing-rooms,  with  Effie 
waltzing  on  ahead. 


THE     REEF 


XV 


MADAME  DE  CHANTELLE  and  Anna  had 
planned,  for  the  afternoon,  a  visit  to  a  remotely 
situated  acquaintance  whom  the  introduction  of  the  mo 
tor  had  transformed  into  a  neighbour.  Effie  was  to  pay 
for  her  morning's  holiday  by  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
school-room,  and  Owen  suggested  that  he  and  Darrow 
should  betake  themselves  to  a  distant  covert  in  the  desul 
tory  quest  for  pheasants. 

Darrow  was  not  an  ardent  sportsman,  but  any  pretext 
for  physical  activity  would  have  been  acceptable  at  the 
moment;  and  he  was  glad  both  to  get  away  from  the 
house  and  not  to  be  left  to  himself. 

When  he  came  downstairs  the  motor  was  at  the  door, 
and  Anna  stood  before  the  hall  mirror,  swathing  her 
hat  in  veils.  She  turned  at  the  sound  of  his  step  and 
smiled  at  him  for  a  long  full  moment. 

"I'd  no  idea  you  knew  Miss  Viner,"  she  said,  as  he 
helped  her  into  her  long  coat. 

"It  came  back  to  me,  luckily,  that  Yd  seen  her  two  or 
three  times  in  London,  several  years  ago.  She  was  secre 
tary,  or  something  of  the  sort,  in  the  background  of  a 
house  where  I  used  to  dine." 

He  loathed  the  slighting  indifference  of  the  phrase,  but 
he  had  uttered  it  deliberately,  had  been  secretly  practis 
ing  it  all  through  the  interminable  hour  at  the  luncheon- 
table.  Now  that  it  was  spoken,  he  shivered  at  its  note  of 
condescension.  In  such  cases  one  was  almost  sure  to 

[142] 


THE     REEF 

overdo  .  .  .  But  Anna  seemed  to  notice  nothing  un 
usual. 

"Was  she  really?  You  must  tell  me  all  about  it — tell 
me  exactly  how  she  struck  you.  I'm  so  glad  it  turns 
out  that  you  know  her." 

"  'Know'  is  rather  exaggerated:  we  used  to  pass  each 
other  on  the  stairs." 

Madame  de  Chantelle  and  Owen  appeared  together  as 
he  spoke,  and  Anna,  gathering  up  her  wraps,  said: 
"You'll  tell  me  about  that,  then.  Try  and  remember 
everything  you  can." 

As  he  tramped  through  the  woods  at  his  young  host's 
side,  Darrow  felt  the  partial  relief  from  thought  pro 
duced  by  exercise  and  the  obligation  to  talk.  Little  as 
he  cared  for  shooting,  he  had  the  habit  of  concentration 
which  makes  it  natural  for  a  man  to  throw  himself 
wholly  into  whatever  business  he  has  in  hand,  and  there 
were  moments  of  the  afternoon  when  a  sudden  whirr  in 
the  undergrowth,  a  vivider  gleam  against  the  hazy 
browns  and  greys  of  the  woods,  was  enough  to  fill  the 
foreground  of  his  attention.  But  all  the  while,  behind 
these  voluntarily  emphasized  sensations,  his  secret  con 
sciousness  continued  to  revolve  on  a  loud  wheel  of 
thought.  For  a  time  it  seemed  to  be  sweeping  him 
through  deep  gulfs  of  darkness.  His  sensations  were  too 
swift  and  swarming  to  be  disentangled.  He  had  an 
almost  physical  sense  of  struggling  for  air,  of  battling 
helplessly  with  material  obstructions,  as  though  the  russet 
covert  through  which  he  trudged  were  the  heart  of  a 
maleficent  jungle  .  .  . 

Snatches  of  his  companion's  talk  drifted  to  him  inter- 

[143] 


THE     REEF 

mittently  through  the  confusion  of  his  thoughts.  He 
caught  eager  self-revealing  phrases,  and  understood  that 
Owen  was  saying  things  about  himself,  perhaps  hinting 
indirectly  at  the  hopes  for  which  Darrow  had  been  pre 
pared  by  Anna's  confidences.  He  had  already  become 
aware  that  the  lad  liked  him,  and  had  meant  to  take  the 
first  opportunity  of  showing  that  he  reciprocated  the 
feeling.  But  the  effort  of  fixing  his  attention  on  Owen's 
words  was  so  great  that  it  left  no  power  for  more  than 
the  briefest  and  most  inexpressive  replies. 

Young  Leath,  it  appeared,  felt  that  he  had  reached  a 
turning-point  in  his  career,  a  height  from  which  he  could 
impartially  survey  his  past  progress  and  projected  en 
deavour.  At  one  time  he  had  had  musical  and  literary 
yearnings,  visions  of  desultory  artistic  indulgence;  but 
these  had  of  late  been  superseded  by  the  resolute  de 
termination  to  plunge  into  practical  life. 

"I  don't  want,  you  see,"  Darrow  heard  him  explain 
ing,  "to  drift  into  what  my  grandmother,  poor  dear,  is 
trying  to  make  of  me:  an  adjunct  of  Givre.  I  don't 
want — hang  it  all ! — to  slip  into  collecting  sensations  as 
my  father  collected  snuff-boxes.  I  want  Erfie  to  have 
Givre — it's  my  grandmother's,  you  know,  to  do  as  she 
likes  with ;  and  I've  understood  lately  that  if  it  belonged 
to  me  it  would  gradually  gobble  me  up.  I  want  to  get 
out  of  it,  into  a  life  that's  big  and  ugly  and  struggling. 
If  I  can  extract  beauty  out  of  that,  so  much  the  better : 
that'll  prove  my  vocation.  But  I  want  to  make  beauty, 
not  be  drowned  in  the  ready-made,  like  a  bee  in  a  pot  of 
honey." 

Darrow  knew  that  he  was  being  appealed  to  for  cor- 

[144] 


THE     REEF 

roboration  of  these  views  and  for  encouragement  in  the 
course  to  which  they  pointed.  To  his  own  ears  his  an 
swers  sounded  now  curt,  now  irrelevant :  at  one  moment 
he  seemed  chillingly  indifferent,  at  another  he  heard  him 
self  launching  out  on  a  flood  of  hazy  discursiveness.  He 
dared  not  look  at  Owen,  for  fear  of  detecting  the  lad's 
surprise  at  these  senseless  transitions.  And  through  the 
confusion  of  his  inward  struggles  and  outward  loquacity 
he  heard  the  ceaseless  trip-hammer  beat  of  the  question : 
"What  in  God's  name  shall  I  do?"  ... 

To  get  back  to  the  house  before  Anna's  return  seemed 
his  most  pressing  necessity.  He  did  not  clearly  know 
why :  he  simply  felt  that  he  ought  to  be  there.  At  one 
moment  it  occurred  to  him  that  Miss  Viner  might  want 
to  speak  to  him  alone — and  again,  in  the  same  flash,  that 
it  would  probably  be  the  last  thing  she  would  want  .  .  . 
At  any  rate,  he  felt  he  ought  to  try  to  speak  to  her; 
or  at  least  be  prepared  to  do  so,  if  the  chance  should  oc 
cur  .  .  . 

Finally,  toward  four,  he  told  his  companion  that  he 
had  some  letters  on  his  mind  and  must  get  back  to  the 
house  and  despatch  them  before  the  ladies  returned.  He 
left  Owen  with  the  beater  and  walked  on  to  the  edge  of 
the  covert.  At  the  park  gates  he  struck  obliquely  through 
the  trees,  following  a  grass  avenue  at  the  end  of  which  he 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  roof  of  the  chapel.  A  grey 
haze  had  blotted  out  the  sun  and  the  still  air  clung  about 
him  tepidly.  At  length  the  house-front  raised  before 
him  its  expanse  of  damp-silvered  brick,  and  he  was  struck 
afresh  by  the  high  decorum  of  its  calm  lines  and  soberly 
massed  surfaces.  It  made  him  feel,  in  the  turbid  coil  of 

[1451 


THE     REEF 

his  fears  and  passions,  like  a  muddy  tramp  forcing  his 
way  into  some  pure  sequestered  shrine  .  .  . 

By  and  bye,  he  knew,  he  should  have  to  think  the  com 
plex  horror  out,  slowly,  systematically,  bit  by  bit ;  but  for 
the  moment  it  was  whirling  him  about  so  fast  that  he 
could  just  clutch  at  its  sharp  spikes  and  be  tossed  off 
again.  Only  one  definite  immediate  fact  stuck  in  his 
quivering  grasp.  He  must  give  the  girl  every  chance — 
must  hold  himself  passive  till  she  had  taken  them  .  .  . 

In  the  court  Effie  ran  up  to  him  with  her  leaping 
terrier. 

"I  was  coming  out  to  meet  you — you  and  Owen.  Miss 
Viner  was  coming,  too,  and  then  she  couldn't  because 
she's  got  such  a  headache.  I'm  afraid  I  gave  it  to  her 
because  I  did  my  division  so  disgracefully.  It's  too  bad, 
isn't  it?  But  won't  you  walk  back  with  me?  Nurse 
won't  mind  the  least  bit;  she'd  so  much  rather  go  in  to 
tea." 

Darrow  excused  himself  laughingly,  on  the  plea  that 
he  had  letters  to  write,  which  was  much  worse  than  hav 
ing  a  headache,  and  not  infrequently  resulted  in  one. 

"Oh,  then  you  can  go  and  write  them  in  Owen's  study. 
That's  where  gentlemen  always  write  their  letters." 

She  flew  on  with  her  dog  and  Darrow  pursued  his  way 
to  the  house.  Effie's  suggestion  struck  him  as  useful.  He 
had  pictured  himself  as  vaguely  drifting  about  the  draw 
ing-rooms,  and  had  perceived  the  difficulty  of  Miss 
Viner's  having  to  seek  him  there ;  but  the  study,  a  small 
room  on  the  right  of  the  hall,  was  in  easy  sight  from  the 
staircase,  and  so  situated  that  there  would  be  nothing 
marked  in  his  being  found  there  in  talk  with  her. 

[146] 


THE     REEF 

He  went  in,  leaving  the  door  open,  and  sat  down  at 
the  writing-table.  The  room  was  a  friendly  heteroge 
neous  place,  the  one  repository,  in  the  well-ordered  and 
amply-servanted  house,  of  all  its  unclassified  odds  and 
ends:  Effie's  croquet-box  and  fishing  rods,  Owen's  guns 
and  golf-sticks  and  racquets,  his  step-mother's  flower- 
baskets  and  gardening  implements,  even  Madame  de 
Chantelle's  embroidery  frame,  and  the  back  numbers  of 
the  Catholic  Weekly.  The  early  twilight  had  begun  to 
fall,  and  presently  a  slanting  ray  across  the  desk  showed 
Darrow  that  a  servant  was  coming  across  the  hall  with  a 
lamp.  He  pulled  out  a  sheet  of  note-paper  and  began 
to  write  at  random,  while  the  man,  entering,  put  the 
lamp  at  his  elbow  and  vaguely  "straightened"  the  heap 
of  newspapers  tossed  on  the  divan.  Then  his  steps 
died  away  and  Darrow  sat  leaning  his  head  on  his  locked 
hands. 

Presently  another  step  sounded  on  the  stairs,  wavered 
a  moment  and  then  moved  past  the  threshold  of  the 
study.  Darrow  got  up  and  walked  into  the  hall,  which 
was  still  unlighted.  In  the  dimness  he  saw  Sophy  Viner 
standing  by  the  hall  door  in  her  hat  and  jacket.  She 
stopped  at  sight  of  him,  her  hand  on  the  door-bolt,  and 
they  stood  for  a  second  without  speaking. 

"Have  you  seen  Effie  ?"  she  suddenly  asked.  "She  went 
out  to  meet  you." 

"She  did  meet  me,  just  now,  in  the  court.  She's  gone 
on  to  join  her  brother." 

Darrow  spoke  as  naturally  as  he  could,  but  his  voice 
sounded  to  his  own  ears  like  an  amateur  actor's  in  a 
"light"  part. 

[147] 


THE     REEF 

Miss  Viner,  without  answering,  drew  back  the  bolt. 
He  watched  her  in  silence  as  the  door  swung  open ;  then 
he  said:  "She  has  her  nurse  with  her.  She  won't  be 
long." 

She  stood  irresolute,  and  he  added :  "I  was  writing  in 
there — won't  you  come  and  have  a  little  talk?  Every 
one's  out." 

The  last  words  struck  him  as  not  well-chosen,  but  there 
was  no  time  to  choose.  She  paused  a  second  longer  and 
then  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  study.  At  luncheon 
she  had  sat  with  her  back  to  the  window,  and  beyond 
noting  that  she  had  grown  a  little  thinner,  and  had  less 
colour  and  vivacity,  he  had  seen  no  change  in  her;  but 
now,  as  the  lamplight  fell  on  her  face,  its  whiteness 
startled  him. 

"Poor  thing  .  .  .  poor  thing  .  .  .  what  in  heaven's 
name  can  she  suppose  ?"  he  wondered. 

"Do  sit  down — I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said  and 
pushed  a  chair  toward  her. 

She  did  not  seem  to  see  it,  or,  if  she  did,  she  deliber 
ately  chose  another  seat.  He  came  back  to  his  own  chair 
and  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  blotter.  She  faced  him  from 
the  farther  side  of  the  table. 

"You  promised  to  let  me  hear  from  you  now  and  then," 
he  began  awkwardly,  and  with  a  sharp  sense  of  his 
awkwardness. 

A  faint  smile  made  her  face  more  tragic.  "Did  I? 
There  was  nothing  to  tell.  I've  had  no  history — like  the 
happy  countries  ..." 

He  waited  a  moment  before  asking:  "You  are  happy 
here?" 

[148] 


THE     REEF 

"I  was,"  she  said  with  a  faint  emphasis. 

"Why  do  you  say  'was'?  You're  surely  not  thinking 
of  going?  There  can't  be  kinder  people  anywhere."  Dar- 
row  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying;  but  her  answer 
came  to  him  with  deadly  definiteness. 

"I  suppose  it  depends  on  you  whether  I  go  or  stay." 

"On  me?"  He  stared  at  her  across  Owen's  scattered 
papers.  "Good  God !  What  can  you  think  of  me,  to  say 
that?" 

The  mockery  of  the  question  flashed  back  at  him  from 
her  wretched  face.  She  stood  up,  wandered  away,  and 
leaned  an  instant  in  the  darkening  window-frame.  From 
there  she  turned  to  fling  back  at  him:  "Don't  imagine 
I'm  the  least  bit  sorry  for  anything!" 

He  steadied  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands.  It  was  harder,  oh,  damnably  harder,  than 
he  had  expected !  Arguments,  expedients,  palliations, 
evasions,  all  seemed  to  be  slipping  away  from  him:  he 
was  left  face  to  face  with  the  mere  graceless  fact  of  his 
inferiority.  He  lifted  his  head  to  ask  at  random :  "You've 
been  here,  then,  ever  since ?" 

"Since  June ;  yes.  It  turned  out  that  the  Farlows  were 
hunting  for  me — all  the  while — for  this" 

She  stood  facing  him,  her  back  to  the  window,  evi 
dently  impatient  to  be  gone,  yet  with  something  still  to 
say,  or  that  she  expected  to  hear  him  say.  The  sense  of 
her  expectancy  benumbed  him.  WThat  in  heaven's  name 
could  he  say  to  her  that  was  not  an  offense  or  a  mockery  ? 

"Your  idea  of  the  theatre — you  gave  that  up  at  once, 
then  ?" 

"Oh,  the  theatre !"    She  gave  a  little  laugh.    "I  couldn't 


THE     REEF 

wait  for  the  theatre.  I  had  to  take  the  first  thing  that 
offered;  I  took  this." 

He  pushed  on  haltingly :  "I'm  glad — extremely  glad — 
you're  happy  here  .  .  .  I'd  counted  on  your  letting  me 
know  if  there  was  anything  I  could  do  ...  The  theatre, 
now — if  you  still  regret  it — if  you're  not  contented 
here  ...  I  know  people  in  that  line  in  London — I'm 
certain  I  can  manage  it  for  you  when  I  get  back " 

She  moved  up  to  the  table  and  leaned  over  it  to  ask, 
in  a  voice  that  was  hardly  above  a  whisper :  "Then  you 
do  want  me  to  leave  ?  Is  that  it  ?" 

He  dropped  his  arms  with  a  groan.  "Good  heavens ! 
How  can  you  think  such  things  ?  At  the  time,  you  know, 
I  begged  you  to  let  me  do  what  I  could,  but  you  wouldn't 
hear  of  it  ...  and  ever  since  I've  been  wanting  to  be  of 
use — to  do  something,  anything,  to  help  you  ..." 

She  heard  him  through,  motionless,  without  a  quiver 
of  the  clasped  hands  she  rested  on  the  edge  of  the 
table. 

"If  you  want  to  help  me,  then — you  can  help  me  to 
stay  here,"  she  brought  out  with  low-toned  intensity. 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  pause  which  followed,  'the 
bray  of  a  motor-horn  sounded  far  down  the  drive.  In 
stantly  she  turned,  with  a  last  white  look  at  him,  and 
fled  from  the  room  and  up  the  stairs.  He  stood  motion 
less,  benumbed  by  the  shock  of  her  last  words.  She  was 
afraid,  then — afraid  of  him — sick  with  fear  of  him !  The 
discovery  beat  him  down  to  a  lower  depth  .  .  . 

The  motor-horn  sounded  again,  close  at  hand,  and  he 
turned  and  went  up  to  his  room.  His  letter-writing  was 
a  sufficient  pretext  for  not  immediately  joining  the  party 


THE     REEF 

about  the  tea-table,  and  he  wanted  to  be  alone  and  try  to 
put  a  little  order  into  his  tumultuous  thinking. 

Upstairs,  the  room  held  out  the  intimate  welcome  of 
its  lamp  and  fire.  Everything  in  it  exhaled  the  same 
sense  of  peace  and  stability  which,  two  evenings  before, 
had  lulled  him  to  complacent  meditation.  His  armchair 
again  invited  him  from  the  hearth,  but  he  was  too  agitated 
to  sit  still,  and  with  sunk  head  and  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back  he  began  to  wander  up  and  down  the  room. 

His  five  minutes  with  Sophy  Viner  had  flashed  strange 
lights  into  the  shadowy  corners  of  his  consciousness. 
The  girl's  absolute  candour,  her  hard  ardent  honesty,  was 
for  the  moment  the  vividest  point  in  his  thoughts.  He 
wondered  anew,  as  he  had  wondered  before,  at  the  way 
in  which  the  harsh  discipline  of  life  had  stripped  her  of 
false  sentiment  without  laying  the  least  touch  on  her 
pride.  When  they  had  parted,  five  months  before,  she 
had  quietly  but  decidedly  rejected  all  his  offers  of  help, 
even  to  the  suggestion  of  his  trying  to  further  her  the 
atrical  aims :  she  had  made  it  clear  that  she  wished  their 
brief  alliance  to  leave  no  trace  on  their  lives  save  that 
of  its  own  smiling  memory.  But  now  that  they  were 
unexpectedly  confronted  in  a  situation  which  seemed,  to 
her  terrified  fancy,  to  put  her  at  his  mercy,  her  first  im 
pulse  was  to  defend  her  right  to  the  place  she  had  won, 
and  to  learn  as  quickly  as  possible  if  he  meant  to  dispute 
it.  While  he  had  pictured  her  as  shrinking  away  from  him 
in  a  tremor  of  self-effacement  she  had  watched  his  move 
ments,  made  sure  of  her  opportunity,  and  come  straight 
down  to  "have  it  out"  with  him.  He  was  so  struck  by 
the  frankness  and  energy  of  the  proceeding  that  for  a 


THE     REEF 

moment  he  lost  sight  of  the  view  of  his  own  character 
implied  in  it. 

"Poor  thing  .  .  .  poor  thing!"  he  could  only  go  on 
saying;  and  with  the  repetition  of  the  words  the  pic 
ture  of  himself  as  she  must  see  him  pitiably  took  shape 
again. 

He  understood  then,  for  the  first  time,  how  vague,  in 
comparison  with  hers,  had  been  his  own  vision  of  the 
part  he  had  played  in  the  brief  episode  of  their  relation. 
The  incident  had  left*  in  him  a  sense  of  exasperation  and 
self-contempt,  but  that,  as  he  now  perceived,  was  chiefly, 
if  not  altogether,  as  it  bore  on  his  preconceived  ideal  of 
his  attitude  toward  another  woman.  He  had  fallen  be 
low  his  own  standard  of  sentimental  loyalty,  and  if  he 
thought  of  Sophy  Viner  it  was  mainly  as  the  chance  in 
strument  of  his  lapse.  These  considerations  were  not 
agreeable  to  his  pride,  but  they  were  forced  on  him  by 
the  example  of  her  valiant  common-sense.  If  he  had 
cut  a  sorry  figure  in  the  business,  he  owed  it  to  her  not 
to  close  his  eyes  to  the  fact  any  longer  .  .  . 

But  when  he  opened  them,  what  did  he  see  ?  The  situ 
ation,  detestable  at  best,  would  yet  have  been  relatively 
simple  if  protecting  Sophy  Viner  had  been  the  only  duty 
involved  in  it.  The  fact  that  that  duty  was  paramount 
did  not  do  away  with  the  contingent  obligations.  It  was 
Darrow's  instinct,  in  difficult  moments,  to  go  straight  to 
the  bottom  of  the  difficulty ;  but  he  had  never  before  had 
to  take  so  dark  a  dive  as  this,  and  for  the  minute  he 
shivered  on  the  brink  .  .  .  Well,  his  first  duty,  at  any 
rate,  was  to  the  girl :  he  must  let  her  see  that  he  meant 
to  fulfill  it  to  the  last  jot,  and  then  try  to  find  out  how 


THE     REEF 

to  square  the  fulfillment  with  the  other  problems  already 
in  his  path   .   .   . 


XVI 


IN  the  oak  room  he  found  Mrs.  Leath,  her  mother- 
in-law  and  Effie.  The  group,  as  he  came  toward  it 
down  the  long  drawing-rooms,  composed  itself  prettily 
about  the  tea-table.  The  lamps  and  the  fire  crossed  their 
gleams  on  silver  and  porcelain,  on  the  bright  haze  of 
Effie's  hair  and  on  the  whiteness  of  Anna's  forehead,  as 
she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  behind  the  tea-urn. 

She  did  not  move  at  Darrow's  approach,  but  lifted  to 
him  a  deep  gaze  of  peace  and  confidence.  The  look 
seemed  to  throw  about  him  the  spell  of  a  divine  security : 
he  felt  the  joy  of  a  convalescent  suddenly  waking  to  find 
the  sunlight  on  his  face. 

Madame  de  Chantelle,  across  her  knitting,  discoursed 
of  their  afternoon's  excursion,  with  occasional  pauses  in 
duced  by  the  hypnotic  effect  of  the  fresh  air;  and  Effie, 
kneeling  on  the  hearth,  softly  but  insistently  sought  to 
implant  in  her  terrier's  mind  some  notion  of  the  rela 
tion  between  a  vertical  attitude  and  sugar. 

Darrow  took  a  chair  behind  the  little  girl,  so  that  he 
might  look  across  at  her  mother.  It  was  almost  a  neces 
sity  for  him,  at  the  moment,  to  let  his  eyes  rest  on  Anna's 
face,  and  to  meet,  now  and  then,  the  proud  shyness  of 
her  gaze. 

Madame  de  Chantelle  presently  enquired  what  had  be 
come  of  Owen,  and  a  moment  later  the  window  behind 

[153] 


THE     REEF 

her  opened,  and  her  grandson,  gun  in  hand,  came  in  from 
the  terrace.  As  he  stood  there  in  the  lamp-light,  with 
dead  leaves  and  bits  of  bramble  clinging  to  his  mud-spat 
tered  clothes,  the  scent  of  the  night  about  him  and  its 
chill  on  his  pale  bright  face,  he  really  had  the  look  of 
a  young  faun  strayed  in  from  the  forest. 

Effie  abandoned  the  terrier  to  fly  to  him.  "Oh,  Owen, 
where  in  the  world  have  you  been?  I  walked  miles  and 
miles  with  Nurse  and  couldn't  find  you,  and  we  met  Jean 
and  he  said  he  didn't  know  where  you'd  gone." 

"Nobody  knows  where  I  go,  or  what  I  see  when  I  get 
there — that's  the  beauty  of  it!"  he  laughed  back  at  her. 
"But  if  you're  good,"  he  added,  "I'll  tell  you  about  it 
one  of  these  days." 

"Oh,  now,  Owen,  now !  I  don't  really  believe  I'll  ever 
be  much  better  than  I  am  now." 

"Let  Owen  have  his  tea  first,"  her  mother  suggested; 
but  the  young  man,  declining  the  offer,  propped  his  gun 
against  the  wall,  and,  lighting  a  cigarette,  began  to  pace 
up  and  down  the  room  in  a  way  that  reminded  Darrow 
of  his  own  caged  wanderings.  Effie  pursued  him  with 
her  blandishments,  and  for  a  while  he  poured  out  to  her 
a  low-voiced  stream  of  nonsense;  then  he  sat  down  be 
side  his  step-mother  and  leaned  over  to  help  himself  to 
tea. 

"Where's  Miss  Viner?"  he  asked,  as  Effie  climbed  up 
on  him.  "Why  isn't  she  here  to  chain  up  this  ungov 
ernable  infant  ?" 

"Poor  Miss  Viner  has  a  headache.  Effie  says  she  went 
to  her  room  as  soon  as  lessons  were  over,  and  sent  word 
that  she  wouldn't  be  down  for  tea." 

[154] 


THE     REEF 

"Ah,"  said  Owen,  abruptly  setting  down  his  cup.  He 
stood  up,  lit  another  cigarette,  and  wandered  away  to  the 
piano  in  the  room  beyond. 

From  the  twilight  where  he  sat  a  lonely  music,  borne 
on  fantastic  chords,  floated  to  the  group  about  the  tea- 
table.  Under  its  influence  Madame  de  Chantelle's  medi 
tative  pauses  increased  in  length  and  frequency,  and  Effie 
stretched  herself  on  the  hearth,  her  drowsy  head  against 
the  dog.  Presently  her  nurse  appeared,  and  Anna  rose 
at  the  same  time.  "Stop  a  minute  in  my  sitting-room  on 
your  way  up,"  she  paused  to  say  to  Darrow  as  she  went. 

A  few  hours  earlier,  her  request  would  have  brought 
him  instantly  to  his  feet.  She  had  given  him,  on  the  day 
of  his  arrival,  an  inviting  glimpse  of  the  spacious  book- 
lined  room  above  stairs  in  which  she  had  gathered  to 
gether  all  the  tokens  of  her  personal  tastes :  the  retreat  in 
which,  as  one  might  fancy,  Anna  Leath  had  hidden  the 
restless  ghost  of  Anna  Summers ;  and  the  thought  of  a 
talk  with  her  there  had  been  in  his  mind  ever  since.  But 
now  he  sat  motionless,  as  if  spell-bound  by  the  play  of 
Madame  de  Chantelle's  needles  and  the  pulsations  of 
Owen's  fitful  music. 

"She  will  want  to  ask  me  about  the  girl,"  he  repeated 
to  himself,  with  a  fresh  sense  of  the  insidious  taint  that 
embittered  all  his  thoughts;  the  hand  of  the  slender- 
columned  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  had  spanned  a  half- 
hour  before  shame  at  his  own  indecision  finally  drew  him 
to  his  feet. 

From  her  writing-table,  where  she  sat  over  a  pile  of 
letters,  Anna  lifted  her  happy  smile.  The  impulse  to 
press  his  lips  to  it  made  him  come  close  and  draw  her 

11  [  155  1 


THE     REEF 

upward.  She  threw  her  head  back,  as  if  surprised  at  the 
abruptness  of  the  gesture;  then  her  face  leaned  to  his 
with  the  slow  droop  of  a  flower.  He  felt  again  the  sweep 
of  the  secret  tides,  and  all  his  fears  went  down  in  them. 

She  sat  down  in  the  sofa-corner  by  the  fire  and  he  drew 
an  armchair  close  to  her.  His  gaze  roamed  peacefully 
about  the  quiet  room. 

"It's  just  like  you — it  is  you/'  he  said,  as  his  eyes  came 
back  to  her. 

"It's  a  good  place  to  be  alone  in — I  don't  think  I've 
ever  before  cared  to  talk  with  any  one  here." 

"Let's  be  quiet,  then:  it's  the  best  way  of  talking." 

"Yes;  but  we  must  save  it  up  till  later.  There  are 
things  I  want  to  say  to  you  now." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "Say  them,  then,  and  I'll 
listen." 

"Oh,  no.    I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  Miss  Viner." 

"About  Miss  Viner?"  He  summoned  up  a  look  of 
faint  interrogation. 

He  thought  she  seemed  surprised  at  his  surprise.  "It's 
important,  naturally/'  she  explained,  "that  I  should  find 
out  all  I  can  about  her  before  I  leave." 

"Important  on  Effie's  account?" 

"On  Effie's  account — of  course." 

"Of  course  .  .  .  But  you've  every  reason  to  be  satis 
fied,  haven't  you  ?" 

"Every  apparent  reason.  We  all  like  her.  Effie's 
very  fond  of  her,  and  she  seems  to  have  a  delightful  in 
fluence  on  the  child.  But  we  know  so  little,  after  all — 
about  her  antecedents,  I  mean,  and  her  past  history. 
That's  why  I  want  you  to  try  and  recall  everything  you 

[156] 


THE     REEF 

heard  about  her  when  you  used  to  see  her  in  London." 

"Oh,  on  that  score  I'm  afraid  I  sha'n't  be  of  much  use. 
As  I  told  you,  she  was  a  mere  shadow  in  the  background 
of  the  house  I  saw  her  in — and  that  was  four  or  five  years 
ago  ...  " 

"When  she  was  with  a  Mrs.  Mtfrrett?" 

"Yes ;  an  appalling  woman  who  runs  a  roaring  dinner- 
factory  that  used  now  and  then  to  catch  me  in  its  wheels. 
I  escaped  from  them  long  ago ;  but  in  my  time  there  used 
to  be  half  a  dozen  fagged  'hands'  to  tend  the  machine,  and 
Miss  Viner  was  one  of  them.  I'm  glad  she's  out  of  it, 
poor  girl !" 

"Then  you  never  really  saw  anything  of  her  there  ?" 

"I  never  had  the  chance.  Mrs.  Murrett  discouraged 
any  competition  on  the  part  of  her  subordinates." 

"Especially  such  pretty  ones,  I  suppose?"  Darrow 
made  no  comment,  and  she  continued :  "And  Mrs.  Mur- 
rett's  own  opinion — if  she'd  offered  you  one — probably 
wouldn't  have  been  of  much  value  ?" 

"Only  in  so  far  as  her  disapproval  would,  on  general 
principles,  have  been  a  good  mark  for  Miss  Viner.  But 
surely,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "you  could  have  found 
out  about  her  from  the  people  through  whom  you  first 
heard  of  her?" 

Anna  smiled.  "Oh,  we  heard  of  her  through  Adelaide 
Painter — ;"  and  in  reply  to  his  glance  of  interrogation 
she  explained  that  the  lady  in  question  was  a  spinster  of 
South  Braintree,  Massachusetts,  who,  having  come  to 
Paris  some  thirty  years  earlier,  to  nurse  a  brother  through 
an  illness,  had  ever  since  protestingly  and  provisionally 
camped  there  in  a  state  of  contemptuous  protestation 

[157] 


THE     REEF 

oddly  manifested  by  her  never  taking  the  slip-covers  off 
her  drawing-room  chairs.  Her  long  residence  on  Gallic 
soil  had  not  mitigated  her  hostility  toward  the  creed  and 
customs  of  the  race,  but  though  she  always  referred  to 
the  Catholic  Church  as  the  Scarlet  Woman  and  took  the 
darkest  views  of  French  private  life,  Madame  de  Chan- 
telle  placed  great  reliance  on  her  judgment  and  experi 
ence,  and  in  every  domestic  crisis  the  irreducible  Ade 
laide  was  immediately  summoned  to  Givre. 

"It's  all  the  odder  because  my  mother-in-law,  since  her 
second  marriage,  has  lived  so  much  in  the  country  that 
she's  practically  lost  sight  of  all  her  other  American 
friends.  Besides  which,  you  can  see  how  completely  she 
has  identified  herself  with  Monsieur  de  Chantelle's  na 
tionality  and  adopted  French  habits  and  prejudices.  Yet 
when  anything  goes  wrong  she  always  sends  for  Ade 
laide  Painter,  who's  more  American  than  the  Stars  and 
Stripes,  and  might  have  left  South  Braintree  yesterday, 
if  she  hadn't,  rather,  brought  it  over  with  her  in  her 
trunk." 

Darrow  laughed.  "Well,  then,  if  South  Braintree 
vouches  for  Miss  Viner " 

"Oh,  but  only  indirectly.  When  we  had  that  odious 
adventure  with  Mademoiselle  Grumeau,  who'd  been  so 
highly  recommended  by  Monsieur  de  Chantelle's  aunt, 
the  Chanoinesse,  Adelaide  was  of  course  sent  for,  and 
she  said  at  once:  Tm  not  the  least  bit  surprised.  I've 
always  told  you  that  what  you  wanted  for  Effie  was  a 
sweet  American  girl,  and  not  one  of  these  nasty  for 
eigners/  Unluckily  she  couldn't,  at  the  moment,  put 
her  hand  on  a  sweet  American ;  but  she  presently  heard 

[158] 


THE     REEF 

of  Miss  Viner  through  the  Farlows,  an  excellent  couple 
who  live  in  the  Quartier  Latin  and  write  about  French 
life  for  the  American  papers.  I  was  only  too  thankful  to 
find  anyone  who  was  vouched  for  by  decent  people ;  and 
so  far  I've  had  no  cause  to  regret  my  choice.  But  I 
know,  after  all,  very  little  about  Miss  Viner;  and  there 
are  all  kinds  of  reasons  why  I  want,  as  soon  as  possible, 
to  find  out  more — to  find  out  all  I  can." 

"Since  you've  got  to  leave  Effie  I  understand  your 
feeling  in  that  way.  But  is  there,  in  such  a  case,  any 
recommendation  worth  half  as  much  as  your  own  direct 
experience  ?" 

"No;  and  it's  been  so  favourable  that  I  was  ready  to 
accept  it  as  conclusive.  Only,  naturally,  when  I  found 
you'd  known  her  in  London  I  was  in  hopes  you'd  give  me 
some  more  specific  reasons  for  liking  her  as  much  as 
I  do." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can  give  you  nothing  more  specific  than 
my  general  vague  impression  that  she  seems  very  plucky 
and  extremely  nice." 

"You  don't,  at  any  rate,  know  anything  specific  to  the 
contrary  ?" 

"To  the  contrary  ?  How  should  I  ?  I'm  not  conscious 
of  ever  having  heard  any  one  say  two  words  about  her.  I 
only  infer  that  she  must  have  pluck  and  character  to  have 
stuck  it  out  so  long  at  Mrs.  Murrett's." 

"Yes,  poor  thing!  She  has  pluck,  certainly;  and 
pride,  too;  which  must  have  made  it  all  the  harder." 
Anna  rose  to  her  feet.  "You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am 
that  your  impression's  on  the  whole  so  good.  I  particu 
larly  wanted  you  to  like  her." 

[159] 


THE     REEF 

He  drew  her  to  him  with  a  smile.  "On  that  condition 
I'm  prepared  to  love  even  Adelaide  Painter.'* 

"I  almost  hope  you  won't  have  the  chance  to — poor 
Adelaide !  Her  appearance  here  always  coincides  with  a 
catastrophe." 

"Oh,  then  I  must  manage  to  meet  her  elsewhere." 
He  held  Anna  closer,  saying  to  himself,  as  he  smoothed 
back  the  hair  from  her  forehead :  "What  does  anything 
matter  but  just  this? — Must  I  go  now?"  he  added  aloud. 

She  answered  absently :  "It  must  be  time  to  dress" ; 
then  she  drew  back  a  little  and  laid  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders.  "My  love — oh,  my  dear  love!"  she  said. 

It  came  to  him  that  they  were  the  first  words  of  en 
dearment  he  had  heard  her  speak,  and  their  rareness 
gave  them  a  magic  quality  of  reassurance,  as  though  no 
danger  could  strike  through  such  a  shield. 

A  knock  on  the  door  made  them  draw  apart.  Anna 
lifted  her  hand  to  her  hair  and  Darrow  stooped  to  ex 
amine  a  photograph  of  Effie  on  the  writing-table. 

"Come  in!"  Anna  said. 

The  door  opened  and  Sophy  Viner  entered.  Seeing 
Darrow,  she  drew  back. 

"Do  come  in,  Miss  Viner,"  Anna  repeated,  looking  at 
her  kindly. 

The  girl,  a  quick  red  in  her  cheeks,  still  hesitated  on 
the  threshold. 

"I'm  so  sorry;  but  Effie  has  mislaid  her  Latin  gram 
mar,  and  I  thought  she  might  have  left  it  here.  I  need 
it  to  prepare  for  tomorrow's  lesson." 

"Is  this  it?"  Darrow  asked,  picking  up  a  book  from 
the  table. 

[160] 


THE     REEF 

"Oh,  thank  you  !" 

He  held  it  out  to  her  and  she  took  it  and  moved  to 
the  door. 

"Wait  a  minute,  please,  Miss  Viner,"  Anna  said;  and 
as  the  girl  turned  back,  she  went  on  with  her  quiet  smile : 
"Effie  told  us  you'd  gone  to  your  room  with  a  headache. 
You  mustn't  sit  up  over  tomorrow's  lessons  if  you  don't 
feel  well." 

Sophy's  blush  deepened.  "But  you  see  I  have  to. 
Latin's  one  of  my  weak  points,  and  there's  generally  only 
one  page  of  this  book  between  me  and  Effie."  She  threw 
the  words  off  with  a  half-ironic  smile.  "Do  excuse  my 
disturbing  you,"  she  added. 

"You  didn't  disturb  me,"  Anna  answered.  Darrow 
perceived  that  she  was  looking  intently  at  the  girl,  as 
though  struck  by  something  tense  and  tremulous  in  her 
face,  her  voice,  her  whole  mien  and  attitude.  "You  do 
look  tired.  You'd  much  better  go  straight  to  bed.  Effie 
won't  be  sorry  to  skip  her  Latin." 

"Thank  you — but  I'm  really  all  right,"  murmured 
Sophy  Viner.  Her  glance,  making  a  swift  circuit  of  the 
room,  dwelt  for  an  appreciable  instant  on  the  intimate 
propinquity  of  arm-chair  and  sofa-corner ;  then  she  turned 
back  to  the  door. 


BOOK  m 


BOOK    HI 

XVII 

AT  dinner  that  evening  Madame  de  Chantelle's  slen 
der  monologue  was  thrown  out  over  gulfs  of 
silence.  Owen  was  still  in  the  same  state  of  moody  ab 
straction  as  when  Darrow  had  left  him  at  the  piano ;  and 
even  Anna's  face,  to  her  friend's  vigilant  eye,  revealed 
not,  perhaps,  a  personal  preoccupation,  but  a  vague  sense 
of  impending  disturbance. 

She  smiled,  she  bore  a  part  in  the  talk,  her  eyes  dwelt 
on  Darrow's  with  their  usual  deep  reliance ;  but  beneath 
the  surface  of  her  serenity  his  tense  perceptions  detected 
a  hidden  stir. 

He  was  sufficiently  self-possessed  to  tell  himself  that 
it  was  doubtless  due  to  causes  with  which  he  was  not 
directly  concerned.  He  knew  the  question  of  Owen's 
marriage  was  soon  to  be  raised,  and  the  abrupt  alteration 
in  the  young  man's  mood  made  it  seem  probable  that  he 
was  himself  the  centre  of  the  atmospheric  disturbance. 
For  a  moment  it  occurred  to  Darrow  that  Anna  might 
have  employed  her  afternoon  in  preparing  Madame  de 
Chantelle  for  her  grandson's  impending  announcement; 
but  a  glance  at  the  elder  lady's  unclouded  brow  showed 
that  he  must  seek  elsewhere  the  clue  to  Owen's  taciturnity 


THE     REEF 

and  his  step-mother's  concern.  Possibly  Anna  had  found 
reason  to  change  her  own  attitude  in  the  matter,  and  had 
made  the  change  known  to  Owen.  But  this,  again,  was 
negatived  by  the  fact  that,  during  the  afternoon's  shoot 
ing,  young  Leath  had  been  in  a  mood  of  almost  extrava 
gant  expansiveness,  and  that,  from  the  moment  of  his  late 
return  to  the  house  till  just  before  dinner,  there  had  been, 
to  Barrow's  certain  knowledge,  no  possibility  of  a  private 
talk  between  himself  and  his  step-mother. 

This  obscured,  if  it  narrowed,  the  field  of  conjecture; 
and  Darrow's  gropings  threw  him  back  on  the  conclusion 
that  he  was  probably  reading  too  much  significance  into 
the  moods  of  a  lad  he  hardly  knew,  and  who  had  been 
described  to  him  as  subject  to  sudden  changes  of  humour. 
As  to  Anna's  fancied  perturbation,  it  might  simply  be 
due  to  the  fact  that  she  had  decided  to  plead  Owen's 
cause  the  next  day,  and  had  perhaps  already  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  difficulties  awaiting  her.  But  Darrow 
knew  that  he  was  too  deep  in  his  own  perplexities  to 
judge  the  mental  state  of  those  about  him.  It  might  be, 
after  all,  that  the  variations  he  felt  in  the  currents  of  com 
munication  were  caused  by  his  own  inward  tremor. 

Such,  at  any  rate,  was  the  conclusion  he  had  reached 
when,  shortly  after  the  two  ladies  left  the  drawing-room, 
he  bade  Owen  good-night  and  went  up  to  his  room. 
Ever  since  the  rapid  self-colloquy  which  had  followed  on 
his  first  sight  of  Sophy  Viner,  he  had  known  there  were 
other  questions  to  be  faced  behind  the  one  immediately 
confronting  him.  On  the  score  of  that  one,  at  least,  his 
mind,  if  not  easy,  was  relieved.  He  had  done  what  was 
possible  to  reassure  the  girl,  and  she  had  apparently 

[166] 


THE     REEF 

recognized  the  sincerity  of  his  intention.  He  had  patched 
up  as  decent  a  conclusion  as  he  could  to  an  incident  that 
should  obviously  have  had  no  sequel ;  but  he  had  known 
all  along  that  with  the  securing  of  Miss  Viner's  peace 
of  mind  only  a  part  of  his  obligation  was  discharged,  and 
that  with  that  part  his  remaining  duty  was  in  conflict.  It 
had  been  his  first  business  to  convince  the  girl  that  their 
secret  was  safe  with  him;  but  it  was  far  from  easy  to 
square  this  with  the  equally  urgent  obligation  of  safe 
guarding  Anna's  responsibility  toward  her  child.  Dar- 
row  was  not  much  afraid  of  accidental  disclosures.  Both 
he  and  Sophy  Viner  had  too  much  at  stake  not  to  be 
on  their  guard.  The  fear  that  beset  him  was  of  an 
other  kind,  and  had  a  profounder  source.  He  wanted 
to  do  all  he  could  for  the  girl,  but  the  fact  of  having  had 
to  urge  Anna  to  confide  Effie  to  her  was  peculiarly  re 
pugnant  to  him.  His  own  ideas  about  Sophy  Viner  were 
too  mixed  and  indeterminate  for  him  not  to  feel  the  risk 
of  such  an  experiment;  yet  he  found  himself  in  the  in 
tolerable  position  of  appearing  to  press  it  on  the  woman 
he  desired  above  all  others  to  protect  .  .  . 

Till  late  in  the  night  his  thoughts  revolved  in  a  tur 
moil  of  indecision.  His  pride  was  humbled  by  the  dis 
crepancy  between  what  Sophy  Viner  had  been  to  him 
and  what  he  had  thought  of  her.  This  discrepancy, 
which  at  the  time  had  seemed  to  simplify  the  incident, 
now  turned  out  to  be  its  most  galling  complication.  The 
bare  truth,  indeed,  was  that  he  had  hardly  thought  of  her 
at  all,  either  at  the  time  or  since,  and  that  he  was  ashamed 
to  base  his  judgment  of  her  on  his  meagre  memory  of 
their  adventure. 


THE     REEF 

The  essential  cheapness  of  the  whole  affair — as  far  as 
his  share  in  it  was  concerned — came  home  to  him  with 
humiliating  distinctness.  He  would  have  liked  to  be  able 
to  feel  that,  at  the  time  at  least,  he  had  staked  something 
more  on  it,  and  had  somehow,  in  the  sequel,  had  a  more 
palpable  loss  to  show.  But  the  plain  fact  was  that  he 
hadn't  spent  a  penny  on  it ;  which  was  no  doubt  the  rea 
son  of  the  prodigious  score  it  had  since  been  rolling  up. 
At  any  rate,  beat  about  the  case  as  he  would,  it  was  clear 
that  he  owed  it  to  Anna — and  incidentally  to  his  own 
peace  of  mind — to  find  some  way  of  securing  Sophy 
Viner's  future  without  leaving  her  installed  at  Givre  when 
he  and  his  wife  should  depart  for  their  new  post. 

The  night  brought  no  aid  to  the  solving  of  this  prob 
lem;  but  it  gave  him,  at  any  rate,  the  clear  conviction 
that  no  time  was  to  be  lost.  His  first  step  must  be  to  ob 
tain  from  Miss  Viner  the  chance  of  another  and  calmer 
talk;  and  he  resolved  to  seek  it  at  the  earliest  hour. 

He  had  gathered  that  Effie's  lessons  were  preceded  by 
an  early  scamper  in  the  park,  and  conjecturing  that  her 
governess  might  be  with  her  he  betook  himself  the  next 
morning  to  the  terrace,  whence  he  wandered  on  to  the 
gardens  and  the  walks  beyond. 

The  atmosphere  was  still  and  pale.  The  muffled  sun 
light  gleamed  like  gold  tissue  through  grey  gauze,  and  the 
beech  alleys  tapered  away  to  a  blue  haze  blent  of  sky  and 
forest.  It  was  one  of  those  elusive  days  when  the  fa 
miliar  forms  of  things  seem  about  to  dissolve  in  a  pris 
matic  shimmer. 

The  stillness  was  presently  broken  by  joyful  barks,  and 
Darrow,  tracking  the  sound,  overtook  Efne  flying  down 

F  i681 


THE     REEF 

one  of  the  long  alleys  at  the  head  of  her  pack.  Beyond 
her  he  saw  Miss  Viner  seated  near  the  stone-rimmed 
basin  beside  which  he  and  Anna  had  paused  on  their  first 
walk  to  the  river. 

The  girl,  coming  forward  at  his  approach,  returned  his 
greeting  almost  gaily.  His  first  glance  showed  him  that 
she  had  regained  her  composure,  and  the  change  in  her 
appearance  gave  him  the  measure  of  her  fears.  For  the 
first  time  he  saw  in  her  again  the  sidelong  grace  that  had 
charmed  his  eyes  in  Paris;  but  he  saw  it  now  as  in  a 
painted  picture. 

"Shall  we  sit  down  a  minute  ?"  he  asked,  as  Effie  trot 
ted  off. 

The  girl  looked  away  from  him.  "I'm  afraid  there's 
not  much  time;  we  must  be  back  at  lessons  at  half-past 
nine." 

"But  it's  barely  ten  minutes  past.  Let's  at  least  walk 
a  little  way  toward  the  river." 

She  glanced  down  the  long  walk  ahead  of  them  and 
then  back  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  "If  you  like,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  with  one  of  her  quick  fluctuations  of 
colour;  but  instead  of  taking  the  way  he  proposed  she 
turned  toward  a  narrow  path  which  branched  off  ob 
liquely  through  the  trees. 

Darrow  was  struck,  and  vaguely  troubled,  by  the 
change  in  her  look  and  tone.  There  was  in  them  an  un- 
definable  appeal,  whether  for  help  or  forbearance  he  could 
not  tell.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  there  might  have 
been  something  misleading  in  his  so  pointedly  seeking 
her,  and  he  felt  a  momentary  constraint.  To  ease  it  he 
made  an  abrupt  dash  at  the  truth. 

[169] 


THE     REEF 

"I  came  out  to  look  for  you  because  our  talk  of  yes 
terday  was  so  unsatisfactory.  I  want  to  hear  more  about 
you — about  your  plans  and  prospects.  I've  been  won 
dering  ever  since  why  you've  so  completely  given  up  the 
theatre." 

Her  face  instantly  sharpened  to  distrust.  "I  had  to 
live,"  she  said  in  an  off-hand  tone. 

"I  understand  perfectly  that  you  should  like  it  here — 
for  a  time."  His  glance  strayed  down  the  gold-roofed 
windings  ahead  of  them.  "It's  delightful :  you  couldn't 
be  better  placed.  Only  I  wonder  a  little  at  your  having 
so  completely  given  up  any  idea  of  a  different  future." 

She  waited  for  a  moment  before  answering :  "I  suppose 
I'm  less  restless  than  I  used  to  be." 

"It's  certainly  natural  that  you  should  be  less  restless 
here  than  at  Mrs.  Murrett's;  yet  somehow  I  don't  seem 
to  see  you  permanently  given  up  to  forming  the  young." 

"What — exactly — do  you  seem  to  see  me  permanently 
given  up  to?  You  know  you  warned  me  rather  em 
phatically  against  the  theatre."  She  threw  off  the  state 
ment  without  impatience,  as  though  they  were  discussing 
together  the  fate  of  a  third  person  in  whom  both  were 
benevolently  interested. 

Darrow  considered  his  reply.  "If  I  did,  it  was  because 
you  so  emphatically  refused  to  let  me  help  you  to  a  start." 

She  stopped  short  and  faced  him.  "And  you  think  I 
may  let  you  now?" 

Darrow  felt  the  blood  in  his  cheek.  He  could  not 
understand  her  attitude — if  indeed  she  had  consciously 
taken  one,  and  her  changes  of  tone  did  not  merely  reflect 
the  involuntary  alternations  of  her  mood.  It  humbled 

[170] 


THE     REEF 

him  to  perceive  once  more  how  little  he  had  to  guide  him 
in  his  judgment  of  her.  He  said  to  himself:  "If  I'd 
ever  cared  a  straw  for  her  I  should  know  how  to  avoid 
hurting  her  now" — and  his  insensibility  struck  him  as  no 
better  than  a  vulgar  obtuseness.  But  he  had  a  fixed 
purpose  ahead  and  could  only  push  on  to  it. 

"I  hope,  at  any  rate,  you'll  listen  to  my  reasons. 
There's  been  time,  on  both  sides,  to  think  them  over 

since "  He  caught  himself  back  and  hung  helpless  on 

the  "since" :  whatever  words  he  chose,  he  seemed  to 
stumble  among  reminders  of  their  past. 

She  walked  on  beside  him,  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 
"Then  I'm  to  understand — definitely — that  you  do  renew 
your  offer?"  she  asked. 

"With  all  my  heart !    If  you'll  only  let  me " 

She  raised  a  hand,  as  though  to  check  him.  "It's  ex 
tremely  friendly  of  you — I  do  believe  you  mean  it  as  a 
friend — but  I  don't  quite  understand  why,  finding  me,  as 
you  say,  so  well  placed  here,  you  should  show  more 
anxiety  about  my  future  than  at  a  time  when  I  was 
actually,  and  rather  desperately,  adrift." 

"Oh,  no,  not  more !" 

"If  you  show  any  at  all,  it  must,  at  any  rate,  be  for 
different  reasons. — In  fact,  it  can  only  be,"  she  went  on, 
with  one  of  her  disconcerting  flashes  of  astuteness,  "for 
one  of  two  reasons ;  either  because  you  feel  you  ought  to 
help  me,  or  because,  for  some  reason,  you  think  you  owe 
it  to  Mrs.  Leath  to  let  her  know  what  you  know  of  me." 

Darrow  stood  still  in  the  path.  Behind  him  he  heard 
Effie's  call,  and  at  the  child's  voice  he  saw  Sophy  turn 
her  head  with  the  alertness  of  one  who  is  obscurely  on 
12  II 


THE     REEF 

the  watch.  The  look  was  so  fugitive  that  he  could  not 
have  said  wherein  it  differed  from  her  normal  profes 
sional  air  of  having  her  pupil  on  her  mind. 

Effie  sprang  past  them,  and  Darrow  took  up  the  girl's 
challenge. 

"What  you  suggest  about  Mrs.  Leath  is  hardly  worth 
answering.  As  to  my  reasons  for  wanting  to  help  you,  a 
good  deal  depends  on  the  words  one  uses  to  define  rather 
indefinite  things.  It's  true  enough  that  I  want  to  help 
you ;  but  the  wish  isn't  due  to  ...  to  any  past  kindness 
on  your  part,  but  simply  to  my  own  interest  in  you. 
Why  not  put  it  that  our  friendship  gives  me  the  right  to 
intervene  for  what  I  believe  to  be  your  benefit  ?" 

She  took  a  few  hesitating  steps  and  then  paused  again. 
Darrow  noticed  that  she  had  grown  pale  and  that  there 
were  rings  of  shade  about  her  eyes. 

"You've  known  Mrs.  Leath  a  long  time?"  she  asked 
him  suddenly. 

He  paused  with  a  sense  of  approaching  peril.  "A  long 
time — yes." 

"She  told  me  you  were  friends — great  friends." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "we're  great  friends." 

"Then  you  might  naturally  feel  yourself  justified  in 
telling  her  that  you  don't  think  I'm  the  right  person  for 
Effie."  He  uttered  a  sound  of  protest,  but  she  disre 
garded  it.  "I  don't  say  you'd  like  to  do  it.  You  wouldn't : 
you'd  hate  it.  And  the  natural  alternative  would  be  to 
try  to  persuade  me  that  I'd  be  better  off  somewhere  else 
than  here.  But  supposing  that  failed,  and  you  saw  I 
was  determined  to  stay?  Then  you  might  think  it  your 
duty  to  tell  Mrs.  Leath." 

[172] 


THE     REEF 

She  laid  the  case  before  him  with  a  cold  lucidity.  "I 
should,  in  your  place,  I  believe,"  she  ended  with  a  little 
laugh. 

"I  shouldn't  feel  justified  in  telling  her,  behind  your 
back,  if  I  thought  you  unsuited  for  the  place ;  but  I  should 
certainly  feel  justified/'  he  rejoined  after  a  pause,  "in 
telling  you  if  I  thought  the  place  unsuited  to  you." 
"And  that's  what  you're  trying  to  tell  me  now  ?" 
"Yes;  but  not  for  the  reasons  you  imagine." 
"What,  then,  are  your  reasons,  if  you  please  ?" 
"I've  already  implied  them  in  advising  you  not  to  give 
up  all  idea  of  the  theatre.    You're  too  various,  too  gifted, 
too  personal,  to  tie  yourself  down,  at  your  age,  to  the 
dismal  drudgery  of  teaching." 
"And  is  that  what  you've  told  Mrs.  Leath  ?" 
She  rushed  the  question  out  at  him  as  if  she  expected 
to  trip  him  up  over  it.    He  was  moved  by  the  simplicity 
of  the  stratagem. 

"I've  told  her  exactly  nothing,"  he  replied. 
"And  what — exactly — do  you  mean  by  'nothing'?    You 
and  she  were  talking  about  me  when  I  came  into  her  sit 
ting-room  yesterday." 

Darrow  felt  his  blood  rise  at  the  thrust. 
"I've  told  her,  simply,  that  I'd  seen  you  once  or  twice 
at  Mrs.  Murrett's." 

"And  not  that  you've  ever  seen  me  since  ?" 
"And  not  that  I've  ever  seen  you  since  ..." 
"And  she  believes  you — she  completely  believes  you?" 
He  uttered  a  protesting  exclamation,  and  his  flush  re 
flected  itself  in  the  girl's  cheek. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!     I  didn't  mean  to  ask  you 

[173] 


THE     REEF 

that."  She  halted,  and  again  cast  a  rapid  glance  behind 
and  ahead  of  her.  Then  she  held  out  her  hand.  "Well, 
then,  thank  you — and  let  me  relieve  your  fears.  I  sha'n't 
be  Effie's  governess  much  longer." 

At  the  announcement,  Darrow  tried  to  merge  his  look 
of  relief  into  the  expression  of  friendly  interest  with 
which  he  grasped  her  hand.  "You  really  do  agree  with 
me,  then?  And  you'll  give  me  a  chance  to  talk  things 
over  with  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  faint  smile.  "I'm  not  think 
ing  of  the  stage.  I've  had  another  offer :  that's  all." 

The  relief  was  hardly  less  great.  After  all,  his  per 
sonal  responsibility  ceased  with  her  departure  from 
Givre. 

"You'll  tell  me  about  that,  then— won't  you  ?" 

Her  smile  flickered  up.  "Oh,  you'll  hear  about  it 
soon  ...  I  must  catch  Effie  now  and  drag  her  back 
to  the  blackboard." 

She  walked  on  for  a  few  yards,  and  then  paused  again 
and  confronted  him.  "I've  been  odious  to  you — and  not 
quite  honest,"  she  broke  out  suddenly. 

"Not  quite  honest?"  he  repeated,  caught  in  a  fresh 
wrave  of  wonder. 

"I  mean,  in  seeming  not  to  trust  you.  It's  come  over 
me  again  as  we  talked  that,  at  heart,  I've  always  known 
I  could  ..." 

Her  colour  rose  in  a  bright  wave,  and  her  eyes  clung 
to  his  for  a  swift  instant  of  reminder  and  appeal.  For 
the  same  space  of  time  the  past  surged  up  in  him  con 
fusedly;  then  a  veil  dropped  between  them. 

"Here's  Effie  now !"  she  exclaimed. 

[174] 


THE     REEF 

He  turned  and  saw  the  little  girl  trotting  back  to  them, 
her  hand  in  Owen  Leath's. 

Even  through  the  stir  of  his  subsiding  excitement  Dar- 
row  was  at  once  aware  of  the  change  effected  by  the 
young  man's  approach.  For  a  moment  Sophy  Viner's 
cheeks  burned  redder ;  then  they  faded  to  the  paleness  of 
white  petals.  She  lost,  however,  nothing  of  the  bright 
bravery  which  it  was  her  way  to  turn  on  the  unex 
pected.  Perhaps  no  one  less  familiar  with  her  face 
than  Darrow  would  have  discerned  the  tension  of  the 
smile  she  transferred  from  himself  to  Owen  Leath,  or 
have  remarked  that  her  eyes  had  hardened  from  misty 
grey  to  a  shining  darkness.  But  her  observer  was  less 
struck  by  this  than  by  the  corresponding  change  in  Owen 
Leath.  The  latter,  when  he  came  in  sight,  had  been 
laughing  and  talking  unconcernedly  with  Effie;  but  as 
his  eye  fell  on  Miss  Viner  his  expression  altered  as  sud 
denly  as  hers. 

The  change,  for  Darrow,  was  less  definable;  but,  per 
haps  for  that  reason,  it  struck  him  as  more  sharply  sig 
nificant.  Only — just  what  did  it  signify?  Owen,  like 
Sophy  Viner,  had  the  kind  of  face  which  seems  less  the 
stage  on  which  emotions  move  than  the  very  stuff  they 
work  in.  In  moments  of  excitement  his  odd  irregular 
features  seemed  to  grow  fluid,  to  unmake  and  remake 
themselves  like  the  shadows  of  clouds  on  a  stream.  Dar 
row,  through  the  rapid  flight  of  the  shadows,  could  not 
seize  on  any  specific  indication  of  feeling :  he  merely  per 
ceived  that  the  young  man  was  unaccountably  surprised 
at  finding  him  with  Miss  Viner,  and  that  the  extent  of 
his  surprise  might  cover  all  manner  of  implications. 

[175] 


THE     REEF 

Darrow's  first  idea  was  that  Owen,  if  he  suspected  that 
the  conversation  was  not  the  result  of  an  accidental  en 
counter,  might  wonder  at  his  step-mother's  suitor  being 
engaged,  at  such  an  hour,  in  private  talk  with  her  little 
girl's  governess.    The  thought  was  so  disturbing  that,  as 
the  three  turned  back  to  the  house,  he  was  on  the  point 
of    saying   to   Owen:    "I    came   out   to    look    for   your 
mother."     But,  in  the  contingency  he  feared,  even  so 
simple  a  phrase  might  seem  like  an  awkward  attempt  at 
explanation ;  and  he  walked  on  in  silence  at  Miss  Viner's 
side.     Presently  he  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  Owen 
Leath  and  the  girl  were  silent  also;  and  this  gave  a  new 
turn  to  his  thoughts.    Silence  may  be  as  variously  shaded 
as  speech ;  and  that  which  enfolded  Darrow  and  his  two 
companions  seemed  to  his  watchful  perceptions  to  be 
quivering  with  cross-threads  of  communication.    At  first 
he~was  aware  only  of  those  that  centred  in  his  own 
troubled  consciousness;  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  an 
equal  activity  of  intercourse  was  going  on  outside  of  it. 
Something  was  in  fact  passing  mutely  and  rapidly  be 
tween  young  Leath  and  Sophy  Viner;  but  what  it  was, 
and  whither  it  tended,  Darrow,  when  they  reached  the 
house,  was  but  just  beginning  to  divine  .  .  . 


XVIII 

ANNA  LEATH,  from  the  terrace,  watched  the  re 
turn  of  the  little  group. 

She  looked  down  on  them,  as  they  advanced  across  the 
garden,  from  the  serene  height  of  her  unassailable  happi- 


THE     REEF 

ness.  There  they  were,  coming  toward  her  in  the  mild 
morning  light,  her  child,  her  step-son,  her  promised  hus 
band:  the  three  beings  who  filled  her  life.  She 
smiled  a  little  at  the  happy  picture  they  presented,  Effie's 
gambols  encircling  it  in  a  moving  frame  within  which  the 
two  men  came  slowly  forward  in  the  silence  of  friendly 
understanding.  It  seemed  part  of  the  deep  intimacy  of 
the  scene  that  they  should  not  be  talking  to  each  other, 
and  it  did  not  till  afterward  strike  her  as  odd  that  neither 
of  them  apparently  felt  it  necessary  to  address  a  word  to 
Sophy  Viner. 

Anna  herself,  at  the  moment,  was  floating  in  the  mid- 
current  of  felicity,  on  a  tide  so  bright  and  buoyant  that 
she  seemed  to  be  one  with  its  warm  waves.  The  first 
rush  of  bliss  had  stunned  and  dazzled  her ;  but  now  that, 
each  morning,  she  woke  to  the  calm  certainty  of  its  re 
currence,  she  was  growing  used  to  the  sense  of  security 
it  gave. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  could  trust  my  happiness  to  carry  me; 
as  if  it  had  grown  out  of  me  like  wings."  So  she  phrased 
it  to  Darrow,  as,  later  in  the  morning,  they  paced  the 
garden-paths  together.  His  answering  look  gave  her  the 
same  assurance  of  safety.  The  evening  before  he  had 
seemed  preoccupied,  and  the  shadow  of  his  mood  had 
faintly  encroached  on  the  great  golden  orb  of  their 
blessedness;  but  now  it  was  uneclipsed  again,  and  hung 
above  them  high  and  bright  as  the  sun  at  noon. 

Upstairs  in  her  sitting-room,  that  afternoon,  she  was 
thinking  of  these  things.  The  morning  mists  had  turned 
to  rain,  compelling  the  postponement  of  an  excursion  in 
which  the  whole  party  were  to  have  joined.  Efne,  with 

1 177 1 


THE     REEF 

her  governess,  had  been  despatched  in  the  motor  to  do 
some  shopping  at  Francheuil;  and  Anna  had  promised 
Darrow  to  join  him,  later  in  the  afternoon,  for  a  quick 
walk  in  the  rain. 

He  had  gone  to  his  room  after  luncheon  to  get  some 
belated  letters  off  his  conscience;  and  when  he  had  left 
her  she  had  continued  to  sit  in  the  same  place,  her  hands 
crossed  on  her  knees,  her  head  slightly  bent,  in  an  atti 
tude  of  brooding  retrospection.  As  she  looked  back  at  her 
past  life,  it  seemed  to  her  to  have  consisted  of  one  cease 
less  effort  to  pack  into  each  hour  enough  to  fill  out  its 
slack  folds ;  but  now  each  moment  was  like  a  miser's  bag 
stretched  to  bursting  with  pure  gold. 

She  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  Owen's  step  in  the 
gallery  outside  her  room.  It  paused  at  her  door  and  in 
answer  to  his  knock  she  called  out  "Come  in !" 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him  she  was  struck  by  his 
look  of  pale  excitement,  and  an  impulse  of  compunction 
made  her  say:  "You've  come  to  ask  me  why  I  haven't 
spoken  to  your  grandmother  !" 

He  sent  about  him  a  glance  vaguely  reminding  her  of 
the  strange  look  with  which  Sophy  Viner  had  swept  the 
room  the  night  before ;  then  his  brilliant  eyes  came  back 
to  her. 

"I've  spoken  to  her  myself,"  he  said. 

Anna  started  up,  incredulous. 

"You've  spoken  to  her?    When?" 

"Just  now.    I  left  her  to  come  here." 

Anna's  first  feeling  was  one  of  annoyance.  There 
was  really  something  comically  incongruous  in  this  boy 
ish  surrender  to  impulse  on  the  part  of  a  young  man  so 


THE     REEF 

eager  to  assume  the  responsibilities  of  life.  She  looked 
at  him  with  a  faintly  veiled  amusement. 

"You  asked  me  to  help  you  and  I  promised  you  I  would. 
It  was  hardly  worth  while  to  work  out  such  an  elaborate 
plan  of  action  if  you  intended  to  take  the  matter  out  of 
my  hands  without  telling  me." 

"Oh,  don't  take  that  tone  with  me !"  he  broke  out,  al 
most  angrily. 

"That  tone  ?  What  tone  ?"  She  stared  at  his  quivering 
face.  "I  might,"  she  pursued,  still  half-laughing,  "more 
properly  make  that  request  of  you !" 

Owen  reddened  and  his  vehemence  suddenly  sub 
sided. 

"I  meant  that  I  had  to  speak — that's  all.  You  don't 
give  me  a  chance  to  explain  ..." 

She  looked  at  him  gently,  wondering  a  little  at  her 
own  impatience. 

"Owen !  Don't  I  always  want  to  give  you  every 
chance?  It's  because  I  do  that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  your 
grandmother  first — that  I  was  waiting  and  watching  for 
the  right  moment  ..." 

"The  right  moment?  So  was  I.  That's  why  I've 
spoken."  His  voice  rose  again  and  took  the  sharp  edge 
it  had  in  moments  of  high  pressure. 

His  step-mother  turned  away  and  seated  herself  in  her 
sofa-corner.  "Oh,  my  dear,  it's  not  a  privilege  to  quarrel 
over !  You've  taken  a  load  off  my  shoulders.  Sit  down 
and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

He  stood  before  her,  irresolute.  "I  can't  sit  down," 
he  said. 

"Walk  about,  then.    Only  tell  me :  I'm  impatient." 

[179] 


THE     REEF 

His  immediate  response  was  to  throw  himself  into  the 
armchair  at  her  side,  where  he  lounged  for  a  moment 
without  speaking,  his  legs  stretched  out,  his  arms  locked 
behind  his  thrown-back  head.  Anna,  her  eyes  on  his 
face,  waited  quietly  for  him  to  speak. 

"Well — of  course  it  was  just  what  one  expected." 

"She  takes  it  so  badly,  you  mean  ?" 

"All  the  heavy  batteries  were  brought  up:  my  father, 
Givre,  Monsieur  de  Chantelle,  the  throne  and  the  altar. 
Even  my  poor  mother  was  dragged  out  of  oblivion  and 
armed  with  imaginary  protests." 

Anna  sighed  out  her  sympathy.  "Well — you  were  pre 
pared  for  all  that?" 

"I  thought  I  was,  till  I  began  to  hear  her  say  it.  Then 
it  sounded  so  incredibly  silly  that  I  told  her  so." 

"Oh,  Owen— Owen !" 

"Yes  :  I  know.    I  was  a  fool ;  but  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"And  you've  mortally  offended  her,  I  suppose  ?  That's 
exactly  what  I  wanted  to  prevent."  She  laid  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "You  tiresome  boy,  not  to  wait  and  let 
me  speak  for  you!" 

He  moved  slightly  away,  so  that  her  hand  slipped  from 
its  place.  "You  don't  understand,"  he  said,  frowning. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can,  till  you  explain.  If  you  thought 
the  time  had  come  to  tell  your  grandmother,  why  not 
have  asked  me  to  do  it?  I  had  my  reasons  for  waiting; 
but  if  you'd  told  me  to  speak  I  should  have  done  so, 
naturally." 

He  evaded  her  appeal  by  a  sudden  turn.  "What  were 
your  reasons  for  waiting?" 

Anna  did  not  immediately  answer.  Her  step-son's  eyes 
[180] 


THE     REEF 

were  on  her  face,  and  under  his  gaze  she  felt  a  faint 
disquietude. 

"I  was  feeling  my  way  ...  I  wanted  to  be  absolutely 
sure..." 

"Absolutely  sure  of  what?" 

She  delayed  again  for  a  just  perceptible  instant. 
"Why,  simply  of  our  side  of  the  case." 

"But  you  told  me  you  were,  the  other  day,  when  we 
talked  it  over  before  they  came  back  from  Ouchy." 

"Oh,  my  dear — if  you  think  that,  in  such  a  complicated 
matter,  every  day,  every  hour,  doesn't  more  or  less 
modify  one's  surest  sureness !" 

"That's  just  what  I'm  driving  at.  I  want  to  know 
what  has  modified  yours." 

She  made  a  slight  gesture  of  impatience.  "What  does 
it  matter,  now  the  thing's  done?  I  don't  know  that  I 
could  give  any  clear  reason  ..." 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  looking  down  on  her  with 
a  tormented  brow.  "But  it's  absolutely  necessary  that  you 
should." 

At  his  tone  her  impatience  flared  up.  "It's  not  neces 
sary  that  I  should  give  you  any  explanation  whatever, 
since  you've  taken  the  matter  out  of  my  hands.  All  I  can 
say  is  that  I  was  trying  to  help  you :  that  no  other 
thought  ever  entered  my  mind."  She  paused  a  moment 
and  then  added :  "If  you  doubted  it,  you  were  right  to  do 
what  you've  done." 

"Oh,  I  never  doubted  you!"  he  retorted,  with  a  fugitive 
stress  on  the  pronoun.  His  face  had  cleared  to  its  old 
look  of  trust.  "Don't  be  offended  if  I've  seemed  to,"  he 
went  on.  "I  can't  quite  explain  myself,  either  .  .  .  it's 

[181] 


THE     REEF 

all  a  kind  of  tangle,  isn't  it?  That's  why  I  thought 
I'd  better  speak  at  once ;  or  rather  why  I  didn't  think  at 
all,  but  just  suddenly  blurted  the  thing  out " 

Anna  gave  him  back  his  look  of  conciliation.  "Well, 
the  how  and  why  don't  much  matter  now.  The  point  is 
how  to  deal  with  your  grandmother.  You've  not  told  me 
what  she  means  to  do." 

"Oh,  she  means  to  send  for  Adelaide  Painter." 

The  name  drew  a  faint  note  of  mirth  from  him  and 
relaxed  both  their  faces  to  a  smile. 

"Perhaps,"  Anna  added,  "it's  really  the  best  thing  for 
us  all." 

Owen  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It's  too  preposterous 
and  humiliating.  Dragging  that  woman  into  our  se 
crets !" 

"This  could  hardly  be  a  secret  much  longer." 

He  had  moved  to  the  hearth,  where  he  stood  pushing 
about  the  small  ornaments  on  the  mantel-shelf;  but  at 
her  answer  he  turned  back  to  her. 

"You  haven't,  of  course,  spoken  of  it  to  any  one  ?" 

"No;  but  I  intend  to  now." 

She  paused  for  his  reply,  and  as  it  did  not  come  she 
continued:  "If  Adelaide  Painter's  to  be  told  there's  no 
possible  reason  why  I  shouldn't  tell  Mr.  Darrow." 

Owen  abruptly  set  down  the  little  statuette  between  his 
fingers.  "None  whatever :  I  want  every  one  to  know." 

She  smiled  a  little  at  his  over-emphasis,  and  was  about 
to  meet  it  with  a  word  of  banter  when  he  continued,  fac 
ing  her :  "You  haven't,  as  yet,  said  a  word  to  him  ?" 

"I've  told  him  nothing,  except  what  the  discussion  of 
our  own  plans — his  and  mine — obliged  me  to :  that  you 


THE     REEF 

were  thinking  of  marrying,  and  that  I  wasn't  willing  to 
leave  France  till  I'd  done  what  I  could  to  see  you 
through." 

At  her  first  words  the  colour  had  rushed  to  his  fore 
head  ;  but  as  she  continued  she  saw  his  face  compose  itself 
and  his  blood  subside. 

"You're  a  brick,  my  dear !"  he  exclaimed. 

"You  had  my  word,  you  know." 

"Yes;  yes — I  know."  His  face  had  clouded  again. 
"And  that's  all — positively  all — you've  ever  said  to  him  ?" 

"Positively  all.    But  why  do  you  ask?" 

He  had  a  moment's  embarrassed  hesitation.  "It  was  un 
derstood,  wasn't  it,  that  my  grandmother  was  to  be  the 
first  to  know?" 

"Well — and  so  she  has  been,  hasn't  she,  since  you've 
told  her?" 

He  turned  back  to  his  restless  shifting  of  the  knick- 
knacks. 

"And  you're  sure  that  nothing  you've  said  to  Darrow 
could  possibly  have  given  him  a  hint ?" 

"Nothing  I've  said  to  him — certainly." 

He  swung  about  on  her.  "Why  do  you  put  it  in  that 
way?" 

"In  what  way?" 

"Why — as  if  you  thought  some  one  else  might  have 
spoken  ..." 

"Some  one  else?  Who  else?"  She  rose  to  her  feet. 
"What  on  earth,  my  dear  boy,  can  you  be  driving  at  ?" 

"I'm  trying  to  find  put  whether  you  think  he  knows 
anything  definite." 

"Why  should  I  think  so?    Do  your 
[183] 


THE     REEF 

"I  don't  know.     I  want  to  find  out." 

She  laughed  at  his  obstinate  insistence.  "To  test  my 
veracity,  I  suppose?"  At  the  sound  of  a  step  in  the 
gallery  she  added :  "Here  he  is — you  can  ask  him  your 
self." 

She  met  Darrow's  knock  with  an  invitation  to  enter, 
and  he  came  into  the  room  and  paused  between  herself 
and  Owen.  She  was  struck,  as  he  stood  there,  by  the 
contrast  between  his  happy  careless  good-looks  and  her 
step-son's  frowning  agitation. 

Darrow  met  her  eyes  with  a  smile.  "Am  I  too  soon? 
Or  is  our  walk  given  up  ?" 

"No;  I  was  just  going  to  get  ready."  She  continued 
to  linger  between  the  two,  looking  slowly  from  one  to  the 
other.  "But  there's  something  we  want  to  tell  you  first : 
Owen  is  engaged  to  Miss  Viner." 

The  sense  of  an  indefinable  interrogation  in  Owen's 
mind  made  her,  as  she  spoke,  fix  her  eyes  steadily  on 
Darrow. 

He  had  paused  just  opposite  the  window,  so  that,  even 
in  the  rainy  afternoon  light,  his  face  was  clearly  open  to 
her  scrutiny.  For  a  second,  immense  surprise  was  alone 
visible  on  it:  so  visible  that  she  half  turned  to  her  step 
son,  with  a  faint  smile  for  his  refuted  suspicions.  Why, 
she  wondered,  should  Owen  have  thought  that  Darrow 
had  already  guessed  his  secret,  and  what,  after  all,  could 
be  so  disturbing  to  him  in  this  not  improbable  contin 
gency?  At  any  rate,  his  doubt  must  have  been  dis 
pelled  :  there  was  nothing  feigned  about  Darrow's  aston 
ishment.  When  her  eyes  turned  back  to  him  he  was 
already  crossing  to  Owen  with  outstretched  hand,  and 

[184] 


THE     REEF 

she  had,  through  an  unaccountable  faint  flutter  of  mis 
giving,  a  mere  confused  sense  of  their  exchanging  the 
customary  phrases.  Her  next  perception  was  of  Owen's 
tranquillized  look,  and  of  his  smiling  return  of  Darrow's 
congratulatory  grasp.  She  had  the  eerie  feeling  of  hav 
ing  been  overswept  by  a  shadow  which  there  had  been  no 
cloud  to  cast  .  .  . 

A  moment  later  Owen  had  left  the  room  and  she  and 
Darrow  were  alone.  He  had  turned  away  to  the  window 
and  stood  staring  out  into  the  down-pour. 

"You're  surprised  at  Owen's  news?"  she  asked. 

"Yes :  I  am  surprised/'  he  answered. 

"You  hadn't  thought  of  its  being  Miss  Viner?" 

"Why  should  I  have  thought  of  Miss  Viner?" 

"You  see  now  why  I  wanted  so  much  to  find  out  what 
you  knew  about  her."  He  made  no  comment,  and  she 
pursued :  "Now  that  you  do  know  it's  she,  if  there's  any 
thing " 

He  moved  back  into  the  room  and  went  up  to  her. 
His  face  was  serious,  with  a  slight  shade  of  annoyance. 
"What  on  earth  should  there  be?  As  I  told  you,  I've 
never  in  my  life  heard  any  one  say  two  words  about  Miss 
Viner." 

Anna  made  no  answer  and  they  continued  to  face  each 
other  without  moving.  For  the  moment  she  had  ceased  to 
think  about  Sophy  Viner  and  Owen :  the  only  thought  in 
her  mind  was  that  Darrow  was  alone  with  her,  close  to 
her,  and  that,  for  the  first  time,  their  hands  and  lips  had 
not  met. 

He  glanced  back  doubtfully  at  the  window.  "It's 
pouring.  Perhaps  you'd  rather  not  go  out  ?" 

[185] 


THE     REEF 

She  hesitated,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  urge  her.  "I 
suppose  I'd  better  not.  I  ought  to  go  at  once  to  my 
mother-in-law — Owen's  just  been  telling  her,"  she  said. 

"Ah."  Darrow  hazarded  a  smile.  "That  accounts  for 
my  having,  on  my  way  up,  heard  some  one  telephoning 
for  Miss  Painter !" 

At  the  allusion  they  laughed  together,  vaguely,  and 
Anna  moved  toward  the  door.  He  held  it  open  for  her 
and  followed  her  out. 


XIX 


HE  left  her  at  the  door  of  Madame  de  Chantelle's 
sitting-room,  and  plunged  out  alone  into  the  rain. 

The  wind  flung  about  the  stripped  tree-tops  of  the 
avenue  and  dashed  the  stinging  streams  into  his  face.  He 
walked  to  the  gate  and  then  turned  into  the  high-road 
and  strode  along  in  the  open,  buffeted  by  slanting  gusts. 
The  evenly  ridged  fields  were  a  blurred  waste  of  mud, 
and  the  russet  coverts  which  he  and  Owen  had  shot 
through  the  day  before  shivered  desolately  against  a  driv 
ing  sky. 

Darrow  walked  on  and  on,  indifferent  to  the  direction 
he  was  taking.  His  thoughts  were  tossing  like  the  tree- 
tops.  Anna's  announcement  had  not  come  to  him  as  a 
complete  surprise:  that  morning,  as  he  strolled  back  to 
the  house  with  Owen  Leath  and  Miss  Viner,  he  had  had 
a  momentary  intuition  of  the  truth.  But  it  had  been  no 
more  than  an  intuition,  the  merest  faint  cloud-puff  of  sur 
mise;  and  now  it  was  an  attested  fact,  darkening  over 
the  whole  sky. 

[186] 


THE     REEF 

In  respect  of  his  own  attitude,  he  saw  at  once  that  the 
discovery  made  no  appreciable  change.  If  he  had  been 
bound  to  silence  before,  he  was  no  less  bound  to  it  now ; 
the  only  difference  lay  in  the  fact  that  what  he  had  just 
learned  had  rendered  his  bondage  more  intolerable. 
Hitherto  he  had  felt  for  Sophy  Viner's  defenseless  state 
a  sympathy  profoundly  tinged  with  compunction.  But 
now  he  was  half-conscious  of  an  obscure  indignation 
against  her.  Superior  as  he  had  fancied  himself  to  ready- 
made  judgments,  he  was  aware  of  cherishing  the  common 
doubt  as  to  the  disinterestedness  of  the  woman  who  tries 
to  rise  above  her  past.  No  wonder  she  had  been  sick 
with  fear  on  meeting  him !  It  was  in  his  power  to  do  her 
more  harm  than  he  had  dreamed  .  .  . 

Assuredly  he  did  not  want  to  harm  her;  but  he  did 
desperately  want  to  prevent  her  marrying  Owen  Leath. 
He  tried  to  get  away  from  the  feeling,  to  isolate  and  ex 
teriorize  it  sufficiently  to  see  what  motives  it  was  made 
of ;  but  it  remained  a  mere  blind  motion  of  his  blood,  the 
instinctive  recoil  from  the  thing  that  no  amount  of  argu 
ing  can  make  "straight."  His  tramp,  prolonged  as  it 
was,  carried  him  no  nearer  to  enlightenment;  and  after 
trudging  through  two  or  three  sallow  mud-stained  vil 
lages  he  turned  about  and  wearily  made  his  way  back 
to  Givre.  As  he  walked  up  the  black  avenue,  making 
for  the  lights  that  twinkled  through  its  pitching  branches, 
he  had  a  sudden  realisation  of  his  utter  helplessness.  He 
might  think  and  combine  as  he  would;  but  there  was 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  that  he  could  do  ... 

He  dropped  his  wet  coat  in  the  vestibule  and  began 
to  mount  the  stairs  to  his  room.  But  on  the  landing  he 
18  [  187  ] 


THE     REEF 

was  overtaken  by  a  sober-faced  maid  who,  in  tones 
discreetly  lowered,  begged  him  to  be  so  kind  as  to 
step,  for  a  moment,  into  the  Marquise's  sitting-room. 
Somewhat  disconcerted  by  the  summons,  he  followed 
its  bearer  to  the  door  at  which,  a  couple  of  hours 
earlier,  he  had  taken  leave  of  Mrs.  Leath.  It  opened  to 
admit  him  to  a  large  lamp-lit  room  which  he  immediately 
perceived  to  be  empty ;  and  the  fact  gave  him  time  to  note, 
even  through  his  disturbance  of  mind,  the  interesting  de 
gree  to  which  Madame  de  Chantelle's  apartment  "dated" 
and  completed  her.  Its  looped  and  corded  curtains,  its 
purple  satin  upholstery,  the  Sevres  jardinieres,  the  rose 
wood  fire-screen,  the  little  velvet  tables  edged  with  lace 
and  crowded  with  silver  knick-knacks  and  simpering 
miniatures,  reconstituted  an  almost  perfect  setting  for 
the  blonde  beauty  of  the  'sixties.  Darrow  wondered  that 
Fraser  Leath's  filial  respect  should  have  prevailed  over 
his  aesthetic  scruples  to  the  extent  of  permitting  such  an 
anachronism  among  the  eighteenth  century  graces  of 
Givre;  but  a  moment's  reflection  made  it  clear  that,  to 
its  late  owner,  the  attitude  would  have  seemed  exactly 
in  the  traditions  of  the  place. 

Madame  de  Chantelle's  emergence  from  an  inner  room 
snatched  Darrow  from  these  irrelevant  musings.  She 
was  already  beaded  and  bugled  for  the  evening,  and,  save 
for  a  slight  pinkness  of  the  eye-lids,  her  elaborate  appear 
ance  revealed  no  mark  of  agitation;  but  Darrow  noticed 
that,  in  recognition  of  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  she 
pinched  a  lace  handkerchief  between  her  thumb  and  fore 
finger. 

She   plunged   at    once   into  the   centre   of   the   diffi- 
[  i881 


THE     REEF 

culty,  appealing  to  him,  in  the  name  of  all  the  Everards, 
to  descend  there  with  her  to  the  rescue  of  her  darling. 
She  wasn't,  she  was  sure,  addressing  herself  in  vain  to 
one  whose  person,  whose  "tone,"  whose  traditions  so  bril 
liantly  declared  his  indebtedness  to  the  principles  she 
besought  him  to  defend.  Her  own  reception  of  Darrow, 
the  confidence  she  had  at  once  accorded  him,  must  have 
shown  him  that  she  had  instinctively  felt  their  unanimity 
of  sentiment  on  these  fundamental  questions.  She  had 
in  fact  recognized  in  him  the  one  person  whom,  without 
pain  to  her  maternal  piety,  she  could  welcome  as  her 
son's  successor;  and  it  was  almost  as  to  Owen's  father 
that  she  now  appealed  to  Darrow  to  aid  in  rescuing  the 
wretched  boy. 

"Don't  think,  please,  that  I'm  casting  the  least  reflec 
tion  on  Anna,  or  showing  any  want  of  sympathy  for 
her,  when  I  say  that  I  consider  her  partly  responsible 
for  what's  happened.  Anna  is  'modern' — I  believe 
that's  what  it's  called  when  you  read  unsettling  books 
and  admire  hideous  pictures.  Indeed,"  Madame  de 
Chantelle  continued,  leaning  confidentially  forward,  "I 
myself  have  always  more  or  less  lived  in  that  atmosphere : 
my  son,  you  know,  was  very  revolutionary.  Only  he 
didn't,  of  course,  apply  his  ideas :  they  were  purely  intel 
lectual.  That's  what  dear  Anna  has  always  failed  to  un 
derstand.  And  I'm  afraid  she's  created  the  same  kind  of 
confusion  in  Owen's  mind — led  him  to  mix  up  things 
you  read  about  with  things  you  do  ...  You  know,  of 
course,  that  she  sides  with  him  in  this  wretched  busi 
ness?" 

Developing  at  length  upon  this  theme,  she  finally  nar- 


THE     REEF 

rowed  down  to  the  point  of  Darrow's  intervention.  "My 
grandson,  Mr.  Darrow,  calls  me  illogical  and  uncharitable 
because  my  feelings  toward  Miss  Viner  have  changed 
since  I've  heard  this  news.  Well !  You've  known  her,  it 
appears,  for  some  years :  Anna  tells  me  you  used  to  see 
her  when  she  was  a  companion,  or  secretary  or  something, 
to  a  dreadfully  vulgar  Mrs.  Murrett.  And  I  ask  you  as  a 
friend,  I  ask  you  as  one  of  usf  to  tell  me  if  you  think  a 
girl  who  has  had  to  knock  about  the  world  in  that  kind 
of  position,  and  at  the  orders  of  all  kinds  of  people,  is 
fitted  to  be  Owen's  wife  .  .  .  I'm  not  implying  anything 
against  her!  I  liked  the  girl,  Mr.  Darrow  .  .  .  But 
what's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  I  don't  want  her  to  marry 
my  grandson.  If  I'd  been  looking  for  a  wife  for  Owen, 
I  shouldn't  have  applied  to  the  Farlows  to  find  me  one. 
That's  what  Anna  won't  understand ;  and  what  you  must 
help  me  to  make  her  see." 

Darrow,  to  this  appeal,  could  oppose  only  the  repeated 
assurance  of  his  inability  to  interfere.  He  tried  to  make 
Madame  de  Chantelle  see  that  the  very  position  he  hoped 
to  take  in  the  household  made  his  intervention  the  more 
hazardous.  He  brought  up  the  usual  arguments,  and 
sounded  the  expected  note  of  sympathy ;  but  Madame  de 
Chantelle's  alarm  had  dispelled  her  habitual  imprecision, 
and,  though  she  had  not  many  reasons  to  advance,  her 
argument  clung  to  its  point  like  a  frightened  sharp- 
clawed  animal. 

"Well,  then,"  she  summed  up,  in  response  to  his  re 
peated  assertions  that  he  saw  no  way  of  helping  her, 
"you  can,  at  least,  even  if  you  won't  say  a  word  to  the 
others,  tell  me  frankly  and  fairly — and  quite  between 

[190] 


THE     REEF 

ourselves — your  personal  opinion  of  Miss  Viner,  since 
you've  known  her  so  much  longer  than  we  have." 

He  protested  that,  if  he  had  known  her  longer,  he  had 
known  her  much  less  well,  and  that  he  had  already, 
on  this  point,  convinced  Anna  of  his  inability  to  pro 
nounce  an  opinion. 

Madame  de  Chantelle  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  intelligence. 
"Your  opinion  of  Mrs.  Murrett  is  enough !  I  don't  sup 
pose  you  pretend  to  conceal  that?  And  heaven  knows 
what  other  unspeakable  people  she's  been  mixed  up  with. 
The  only  friends  she  can  produce  are  called  Hoke  .  .  . 
Don't  try  to  reason  with  me,  Mr.  Darrow.  There  are 
feelings  that  go  deeper  than  facts  .  .  .  And  I  know  she 
thought  of  studying  for  the  stage  ..."  Madame  de 
Chantelle  raised  the  corner  of  her  lace  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes.  "I'm  old-fashioned — like  my  furniture,"  she 
murmured.  "And  I  thought  I  could  count  on  you,  Mr. 
Darrow  ..." 

When  Darrow,  that  night,  regained  his  room,  he  re 
flected  with  a  flash  of  irony  that  each  time  he  entered  it 
he  brought  a  fresh  troop  of  perplexities  to  trouble  its 
serene  seclusion.  Since  the  day  after  his  arrival,  only 
forty-eight  hours  before,  when  he  had  set  his  window 
open  to  the  night,  and  his  hopes  had  seemed  as  many  as 
its  stars,  each  evening  had  brought  its  new  problem  and 
its  renewed  distress.  But  nothing,  as  yet,  had  approached 
the  blank  misery  of  mind  with  which  he  now  set  him 
self  to  face  the  fresh  questions  confronting  him. 

Sophy  Viner  had  not  shown  herself  at  dinner,  so  that 
he  had  had  no  glimpse  of  her  in  her  new  character,  and 


THE     REEF 

no  means  of  divining  the  real  nature  of  the  tie  between 
herself  and  Owen  Leath.  One  thing,  however,  was  clear : 
whatever  her  real  feelings  were,  and  however  much  or 
little  she  had  at  stake,  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
marry  Owen  she  had  more  than  enough  skill  and  tenacity 
to  defeat  any  arts  that  poor  Madame  de  Chant elle  could 
oppose  to  her. 

Darrow  himself  was  in  fact  the  only  person  who  might 
possibly  turn  her  from  her  purpose:  Madame  de  Chan- 
telle,  at  haphazard,  had  hit  on  the  surest  means  of  saving 
Owen — if  to  prevent  his  marriage  were  to  save  him! 
Darrow,  on  this  point,  did  not  pretend  to  any  fixed  opin 
ion  ;  one  feeling  alone  was  clear  and  insistent  in  him :  he 
did  not  mean,  if  he  could  help  it,  to  let  the  marriage  take 
place. 

How  he  was  to  prevent  it  he  did  not  know :  to  his  tor 
mented  imagination  every  issue  seemed  closed.  For  a 
fantastic  instant  he  was  moved  to  follow  Madame  de 
Chantelle's  suggestion  and  urge  Anna  to  withdraw  her 
approval.  If  his  reticence,  his  efforts  to  avoid  the  sub 
ject,  had  not  escaped  her,  she  had  doubtless  set  them 
down  to  the  fact  of  his  knowing  more,  and  thinking 
less,  of  Sophy  Viner  than  he  had  been  willing  to  admit; 
and  he  might  take  advantage  of  this  to  turn  her  mind 
gradually  from  the  project.  Yet  how  do  so  without  be 
traying  his  insincerity?  If  he  had  had  nothing  to 
hide  he  could  easily  have  said:  "It's  one  thing  to  know 
nothing  against  the  girl,  it's  another  to  pretend  that  I 
think  her  a  good  match  for  Owen."  But  could  he  say 
even  so  much  without  betraying  more  ?  It  was  not  Anna's 
questions,  or  his  answers  to  them,  that  he  feared,  but 


THE     REEF 

what  might  cry  aloud  in  the  intervals  between  them.  He 
understood  now  that  ever  since  Sophy  Viner's  arrival  at 
Givre  he  had  felt  in  Anna  the  lurking  sense  of  something 
unexpressed,  and  perhaps  inexpressible,  between  the  girl 
and  himself  .  .  .  When  at  last  he  fell  asleep  he  had 
fatalistically  committed  his  next  step  to  the  chances  of 
the  morrow. 

The  first  that  offered  itself  was  an  encounter  with  Mrs. 
Leath  as  he  descended  the  stairs  the  next  morning.  She 
had  come  down  already  hatted  and  shod  for  a  dash  to  the 
park  lodge,  where  one  of  the  gatekeeper's  children  had 
had  an  accident.  In  her  compact  dark  dress  she  looked 
more  than  usually  straight  and  slim,  and  her  face  wore 
the  pale  glow  it  took  on  at  any  call  on  her  energy :  a  kind 
of  warrior  brightness  that  made  her  small  head,  with  its 
strong  chin  and  close-bound  hair,  like  that  of  an  amazon 
in  a  frieze. 

It  was  their  first  moment  alone  since  she  had  left  him, 
the  afternoon  before,  at  her  mother-in-law's  door;  and 
after  a  few  words  about  the  injured  child  their  talk  in 
evitably  reverted  to  Owen. 

Anna  spoke  with  a  smile  of  her  "scene"  with  Madame 
de  Chantelje,  who  belonged,  poor  dear,  to  a  generation 
when  "scenes"  (in  the  ladylike  and  lachrymal  sense  of  the 
term)  were  the  tribute  which  sensibility  was  expected  to 
pay  to  the  unusual.  Their  conversation  had  been,  in  every 
detail,  so  exactly  what  Anna  had  foreseen  thaf  it  had 
clearly  not  made  much  impression  on  her;  but  she  was 
eager  to  know  the  result  of  Darrow's  encounter  with 
her  mother-in-law. 

"She  told  me  she'd  sent  for  you:  she  always  'sends 

[193] 


THE     REEF 

for'  people  in  emergencies.  That  again,  I  suppose,  is 
de  I'epoque.  And  failing  Adelaide  Painter,  who  can't 
get  here  till  this  afternoon,  there  was  no  one  but  poor 
you  to  turn  to." 

She  put  it  all  lightly,  with  a  lightness  that  seemed  to 
his  tight-strung  nerves  slightly,  undefinably  over-done. 
But  he  was  so  aware  of  his  own  tension  that  he  won 
dered,  the  next  moment,  whether  anything  would  ever 
again  seem  to  him  quite  usual  and  insignificant  and  in 
the  common  order  of  things. 

As  they  hastened  on  through  the  drizzle  in  which 
the  storm  of  the  night  was  weeping  itself  out,  Anna  drew 
close  under  his  umbrella,  and  at  the  pressure  of  her  arm 
against  his  he  recalled  his  walk  up  the  Dover  pier  with 
Sophy  Viner.  The  memory  gave  him  a  startled  vision 
of  the  inevitable  occasions  of  contact,  confidence,  fa 
miliarity,  which  his  future  relationship  to  the  girl  would 
entail,  and  the  countless  chances  of  betrayal  that  every 
one  of  them  involved. 

"Do  tell  me  just  what  you  said,"  he  heard  Anna  plead 
ing  ;  and  with  sudden  resolution  he  affirmed :  "I  quite  un 
derstand  your  mother-in-law's  feeling  as  she  does." 

The  words,  when  uttered,  seemed  a  good  deal  less  sig 
nificant  than  they  had  sounded  to  his  inner  ear;  and 
Anna  replied  without  surprise :  "Of  course.  It's  inevita 
ble  that  she  should.  But  we  shall  bring  her  round  in 
time."  Under  the  dripping  dome  she  raised  her  face  to 
his.  "Don't  you  remember  what  you  said  the  day  before 
yesterday  ?  'Together  we  can't  fail  to  pull  it  off  for  him !' 
I've  told  Owen  that,  so  you're  pledged  and  there's  no  go 
ing  back." 

[194] 


THE     REEF 

The  day  before  yesterday !  Was  it  possible  that,  no 
longer  ago,  life  had  seemed  a  sufficiently  simple  business 
for  a  sane  man  to  hazard  such  assurances  ? 

"Anna,"  he  questioned  her  abruptly,  "why  are  you  so 
anxious  for  this  marriage  ?" 

She  stopped  short  to  face  him.  "Why?  But  surely 
I've  explained  to  you — or  rather  I've  hardly  had  to,  you 
seemed  so  in  sympathy  with  my  reasons  !" 

"I  didn't  know,  then,  who  it  was  that  Owen  wanted  to 
marry." 

The  words  were  out  with  a  spring  and  he  felt  a  clearer 
air  in  his  brain.  But  her  logic  hemmed  him  in. 

"You  knew  yesterday;  and  you  assured  me  then  that 
you  hadn't  a  word  to  say " 

"Against  Miss  Viner?"  The  name,  once  uttered, 
sounded  on  and  on  in  his  ears.  "Of  course  not.  But  that 
doesn't  necessarily  imply  that  I  think  her  a  good  match 
for  Owen." 

Anna  made  no  immediate  answer.  When  she  spoke  it 
was  to  question :  "Why  don't  you  think  her  a  good  match 
for  Owen  ?" 

"Well — Madame  de  Chantelle's  reasons  seem  to  me 
not  quite  as  negligible  as  you  think." 

"You  mean  the  fact  that  she's  been  Mrs.  Murrett's 
secretary,  and  that  the  people  who  employed  her  before 
were  called  Hoke  ?  For,  as  far  as  Owen  and  I  can  make 
out,  these  are  the  gravest  charges  against  her." 

"Still,  one  can  understand  that  the  match  is  not  what 
Madame  de  Chantelle  had  dreamed  of." 

"Oh,  perfectly— if  that's  all  you  mean." 

The  lodge  was  in  sight,  and  she  hastened  her  step.    He 
[  195  ] 


THE     REEF 

strode  on  beside  her  in  silence,  but  at  the  gate  she  checked 
him  with  the  question :  "Is  it  really  all  you  mean?" 

"Of  course,"  he  heard  himself  declare. 

"Oh,  then  I  think  I  shall  convince  you — even  if  I  can't, 
like  Madame  de  Chantelle,  summon  all  the  Everards  to 
my  aid!"  She  lifted  to  him  the  look  of  happy  laughter 
that  sometimes  brushed  her  with  a  gleam  of  spring. 

Darrow  watched  her  hasten  along  the  path  be 
tween  the  dripping  chrysanthemums  and  enter  the  lodge. 
After  she  had  gone  in  he  paced  up  and  down  outside  in 
the  drizzle,  waiting  to  learn  if  she  had  any  message  to 
send  back  to  the  house;  and  after  the  lapse  of  a  few 
minutes  she  came  out  again. 

The  child,  she  said,  was  badly,  though  not  dangerously, 
hurt,  and  the  village  doctor,  who  was  already  on  hand, 
had  asked  that  the  surgeon,  already  summoned  from 
Francheuil,  should  be  told  to  bring  with  him  certain 
needful  appliances.  Owen  had  started  by  motor  to  fetch 
the  surgeon,  but  there  was  still  time  to  communicate  with 
the  latter  by  telephone.  The  doctor  furthermore  begged 
for  an  immediate  provision  of  such  bandages  and  disin 
fectants  as  Givre  itself  could  furnish,  and  Anna  bade 
Darrow  address  himself  to  Miss  Viner,  who  would  know 
where  to  find  the  necessary  things,  and  would  direct  one 
of  the  servants  to  bicycle  with  them  to  the  lodge. 

Darrow,  as  he  hurried  off  on  this  errand,  had  at  once 
perceived  the  opportunity  it  offered  of  a  word  with  Sophy 
Viner.  What  that  word  was  to  be  he  did  not  know ;  but 
now,  if  ever,  was  the  moment  to  make  it  urgent  and  con 
clusive.  It  was  unlikely  that  he  would  again  have  such 
a  chance  of  unobserved  talk  with  her. 


THE     REEF 

He  had  supposed  he  should  find  her  with  her  pupil  in 
the  school-room ;  but  he  learned  from  a  servant  that  Effie 
had  gone  to  Francheuil  with  her  step-brother,  and  that 
Miss  Viner  was  still  in  her  room.  Darrow  sent  her  word 
that  he  was  the  bearer  of  a  message  from  the  lodge,  and  a 
moment  later  he  heard  her  coming  down  the  stairs. 


XX 


FR  a  second,  as  she  approached  him,  the  quick 
tremor  of  her  glance  showed  her  all  intent  on  the 
same  thought  as  himself.  He  transmitted  his  instructions 
with  mechanical  precision,  and  she  answered  in  the  same 
tone,  repeating  his  words  with  the  intensity  of  attention 
of  a  child  not  quite  sure  of  understanding.  Then  she  dis 
appeared  up  the  stairs. 

Darrow  lingered  on  in  the  hall,  not  knowing  if  she 
meant  to  return,  yet  inwardly  sure  she  would.  At  length 
he  saw  her  coming  down  in  her  hat  and  jacket.  The 
rain  still  streaked  the  window  panes,  and,  in  order  to 
say  something,  he  said:  "You're  not  going  to  the  lodge 
yourself?" 

"I've  sent  one  of  the  men  ahead  with  the  things ;  but  I 
thought  Mrs.  Leath  might  need  me." 

"She  didn't  ask  for  you,"  he  returned,  wondering  how 
he  could  detain  her;  but  she  answered  decidedly:  "I'd 
better  go." 

He  held  open  the  door,  picked  up  his  umbrella  and  fol 
lowed  her  out.  As  they  went  down  the  steps  she  glanced 
back  at  him.  "You've  forgotten  your  mackintosh." 

1 197  ] 


THE     REEF 

"I  sha'n't  need  it." 

She  had  no  umbrella,  and  he  opened  his  and  held  it 
out  to  her.  She  rejected  it  with  a  murmur  of  thanks 
and  walked  on  through  the  thin  drizzle,  and  he  kept 
the  umbrella  over  his  own  head,  without  offering  to  shel 
ter  her. 

Rapidly  and  in  silence  they  crossed  the  court  and  be 
gan  to  walk  down  the  avenue.  They  had  traversed  a 
third  of  its  length  before  Darrow  said  abruptly : 
"Wouldn't  it  have  been  fairer,  when  we  talked  together 
yesterday,  to  tell  me  what  I've  just  heard  from  Mrs. 
Leath?" 

"Fairer ?"  She  stopped  short  with  a  startled  look. 

"If  I'd  known  that  your  future  was  already  settled  I 
should  have  spared  you  my  gratuitous  suggestions." 

She  walked  on,  more  slowly,  for  a  yard  or  two.  "I 
couldn't  speak  yesterday.  I  meant  to  have  told  you  to 
day." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  reproaching  you  for  your  lack  of  confi 
dence.  Only,  if  you  had  told  me,  I  should  have  been  more 
sure  of  your  really  meaning  what  you  said  to  me  yester 
day." 

She  did  not  ask  him  to  what  he  referred,  and  he  saw 
that  her  parting  words  to  him  lived  as  vividly  in  her 
memory  as  in  his. 

"Is  it  so  important  that  you  should  be  sure?"  she 
finally  questioned. 

"Not  to  you,  naturally,"  he  returned  with  involun 
tary  asperity.  It  was  incredible,  yet  it  was  a  fact, 
that  for  the  moment  his  immediate  purpose  in  seeking 
to  speak  to  her  was  lost  under  a  rush  of  resentment 


THE     REEF 

at  counting  for  so  little  in  her  fate.  Of  what  stuff,  then, 
was  his  feeling  for  her  made?  A  few  hours  earlier  she 
had  touched  his  thoughts  as  little  as  his  senses ;  but  now 
he  felt  old  sleeping  instincts  stir  in  him  .  .  . 

A  rush  of  rain  dashed  against  his  face,  and,  catching 
Sophy's  hat,  strained  it  back  from  her  loosened  hair. 
She  put  her  hands  to  her  head  with  a  familiar  gesture  .  .  . 
He  came  closer  and  held  his  umbrella  over  her  .  . 

At  the  lodge  he  waited  while  she  went  in.  The 
rain  continued  to  stream  down  on  him  and  he  shivered 
in  the  dampness  and  stamped  his  feet  on  the  flags.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  a  long  time  elapsed  before  the  door 
opened  and  she  reappeared.  He  glanced  into  the  house 
for  a  glimpse  of  Anna,  but  obtained  none;  yet  the  mere 
sense  of  her  nearness  had  completely  altered  his  mood. 

The  child,  Sophy  told  him,  was  doing  well;  but  Mrs. 
Leath  had  decided  to  wait  till  the  surgeon  came.  Dar- 
row,  as  they  turned  away,  looked  through  the  gates, 
and  saw  the  doctor's  old-fashioned  carriage  by  the  road 
side. 

"Let  me  tell  the  doctor's  boy  to  drive  you  back,"  he 
suggested;  but  Sophy  answered:  "No;  I'll  walk,"  and 
he  moved  on  toward  the  house  at  her  side.  She  ex 
pressed  no  surprise  at  his  not  remaining  at  the  lodge, 
and  again  they  walked  on  in  silence  through  the  rain. 
She  had  accepted  the  shelter  of  his  umbrella,  but  she  kept 
herself  at  such  a  carefully  measured  distance  that  even 
the  slight  swaying  movements  produced  by  their  quick 
pace  did  not  once  bring  her  arm  in  touch  with  his;  and, 
noticing  this,  he  perceived  that  every  drop  of  her  blood 
must  be  alive  to  his  nearness. 

[199] 


• 


THE     REEF 

"What  I  meant  just  now,",  he  began,  "was  that  you 
ought  to  have  been  sure  of  my  good  wishes." 

She  seemed  to  weigh  the  words.  "Sure  enough  for 
what?" 

"To  trust  me  a  little  farther  than  you  did." 

"I've  told  you  that  yesterday  I  wasn't  free  to  speak." 

"Well,  since  you  are  now,  may  I  say  a  word  to  you  ?" 

She  paused  perceptibly,  arid  when  she  spoke  it  was 
in  so  low  a  tone  that  he  had  to  bend  his  head  to  catch 
her  answer.  "I  can't  think  what  you  can  have  to 
say." 

"It's  not  easy  to  say  here,  at  any  rate.  And  indoors  I 
sha'n't  know  where  to  say  it."  He  glanced  about  him  in 
the  rain.  "Let's  walk  over  to  the  spring-house  for  a 
minute." 

To  the  right  of  the  drive,  under  a  clump  of  trees,  a  little 
stucco  pavilion  crowned  by  a  balustrade  rose  on  arches  of 
mouldering  brick  over  a  flight  of  steps  that  led  down  to  a 
spring.  Other  steps  curved  up  to  a  door  above.  Darrow 
mounted  these,  and  opening  the  door  entered  a  small  cir 
cular  room  hung  with  loosened  strips  of  painted  paper 
whereon  spectrally  faded  Mandarins  executed  elongated 
gestures.  Some  black  and  gold  chairs  with  straw  seats 
and  an  unsteady  table  of  cracked  lacquer  stood  on  the 
floor  of  red-glazed  tile. 

Sophy  had  followed  him  without  comment.  He  closed 
the  door  after  her,  and  she  stood  motionless,  as  though 
waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"Now  we  can  talk  quietly,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with 
a  smile  into  which  he  tried  to  put  an  intention  of  the 
frankest  friendliness. 

F  200  1 


THE     REEF 

She  merely  repeated :  "I  can't  think  what  you  can  have 
to  say." 

Her  voice  had  lost  the  note  of  half-wistful  confidence 
on  which  their  talk  of  the  previous  day  had  closed,  and 
she  looked  at  him  with  a  kind  of  pale  hostility.  Her  tone 
made  it  evident  that  his  task  would  be  difficult,  but  it  did 
not  shake  his  resolve  to  go  on.  He  sat  down,  and  me 
chanically  she  followed  his  example.  The  table  was  be 
tween  them  and  she  rested  her  arms  on  its  cracked  edge 
and  her  chin  on  her  interlocked  hands.  He  looked  at 
her  and  she  gave  him  back  his  look. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me?"  he  asked  at  length. 

A  faint  smile  lifted,  in  the  remembered  way,  the  left 
corner  of  her  narrowed  lips. 

"About  my  marriage  ?" 

"About  your  marriage." 

She  continued  to  consider  him  between  half-drawn  lids. 
"What  can  I  say  that  Mrs.  Leath  has  not  already  told 
you?" 

"Mrs.  Leath  has  told  me  nothing  whatever  but  the  fact 
— and  her  pleasure  in  it." 

"Well ;  aren't  those  the  two  essential  points  ?" 

"The  essential  points  to  you?    I  should  have  thought 
jt 

"Oh,  to  you,  I  meant,"  she  put  in  keenly. 

He  flushed  at  the  retort,  but  steadied  himself  and  re 
joined:  "The  essential  point  to  me  is,  of  course,  that  you 
should  be  doing  what's  really  best  for  you." 

She  sat  silent,  with  lowered  lashes.  At  length  she 
stretched  out  her  arm  and  took  up  from  the  table  a  little 
threadbare  Chinese  hand-screen.  She  turned  its  ebony 

[201] 


THE     REEF 

stem  once  or  twice  between  her  fingers,  and  as  she  did  so 
Darrow  was  whimsically  struck  by  the  way  in  which 
their  evanescent  slight  romance  was  symbolized  by  the 
fading  lines  on  the  frail  silk. 

"Do  you  think  my  engagement  to  Mr.  Leath  not  really 
best  for  me  ?"  she  asked  at  length. 

Darrow,  before  answering,  waited  long  enough  to  get 
his  words  into  the  tersest  shape — not  without  a  sense, 
as  he  did  so,  of  his  likeness  to  the  surgeon  deliberately 
poising  his  lancet  for  a  clean  incision.  "I'm  not  sure," 
he  replied,  "of  its  being  the  best  thing  for  either  of 
you." 

She  took  the  stroke  steadily,  but  a  faint  red  swept 
her  face  like  the  reflection  of  a  blush.  She  continued 
to  keep  her  lowered  eyes  on  the  screen. 

"From  whose  point  of  view  do  you  speak?" 

"Naturally,  that  of  the  persons  most  concerned." 

"From  Owen's,  then,  of  course?  You  don't  think 
me  a  good  match  for  him  ?" 

"From  yours,  first  of  all.  I  don't  think  him  a  good 
match  for  you." 

He  brought  the  answer  out  abruptly,  his  eyes  on  her 
face.  It  had  grown  extremely  pale,  but  as  the  meaning 
of  his  words  shaped  itself  in  her  mind  he  saw  a  curious 
inner  light  dawn  through  her  set  look.  She  lifted  her  lids 
just  far  enough  for  a  veiled  glance  at  him,  and  a  smile 
slipped  through  them  to  her  trembling  lips.  For  a  mo 
ment  the  change  merely  bewildered  him;  then  it  pulled 
him  up  with  a  sharp  jerk  of  apprehension. 

"I  don't  think  him  a  good  match  for  you,"  he  stam 
mered,  groping  for  the  lost  thread  of  his  words. 

[202] 


THE     REEF 

She  threw  a  vague  look  about  the  chilly  rain-dimmed 
room.  "And  you've  brought  me  here  to  tell  me  why?" 

The  question  roused  him  to  the  sense  that  their  minutes 
were  numbered,  and  that  if  he  did  not  immediately  get  to 
his  point  there  might  be  no  other  chance  of  making  it. 

"My  chief  reason  is  that  I  believe  he's  too  young 
and  inexperienced  to  give  you  the  kind  of  support  you 
need." 

At  his  words  her  face  changed  again,  freezing  to  a 
tragic  coldness.  She  stared  straight  ahead  of  her,  per 
ceptibly  struggling  with  the  tremor  of  her  muscles ;  and 
when  she  had  controlled  it  she  flung  out  a  pale-lipped 
pleasantry.  "But  you  see  I've  always  had  to  support  my 
self!" 

"He's  a  boy/'  Darrow  pushed  on,  "a  charming,  wonder 
ful  boy ;  but  with  no  more  notion  than  a  boy  how  to  deal 
with  the  inevitable  daily  problems  .  .  .  the  trivial  stupid 
unimportant  things  that  life  is  chiefly  made  up  of." 

"I'll  deal  with  them  for  him,"  she  rejoined. 

"They'll  be  more  than  ordinarily  difficult." 

She  shot  a  challenging  glance  at  him.  "You  must  have 
some  special  reason  for  saying  so." 

"Only  my  clear  perception  of  the  facts." 

"What  facts  do  you  mean  ?" 

Darrow  hesitated.  "You  must  know  better  than  I,"  he 
returned  at  length,  "that  the  way  won't  be  made  easy  to 
you." 

"Airs.  Leath,  at  any  rate,  has  made  it  so." 

"Madame  de  Chantelle  will  not." 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?"  she  flung  back. 

He  paused  again,  not  sure  how  far  it  was  prudent  to> 
14  [  203  ] 


THE    REEF 

reveal  himself  in  the  confidence  of  the  household.  Then, 
to  avoid  involving  Anna,  he  answered:  "Madame  de 
Chantelle  sent  for  me  yesterday." 

"Sent  for  you — to  talk  to  you  about  me  ?"  The  colour 
rose  to  her  forehead  and  her  eyes  burned  black  under 
lowered  brows.  "By  what  right,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 
What  have  you  to  do  with  me,  or  with  anything  in  the 
world  that  concerns  me  ?" 

Darrow  instantly  perceived  what  dread  suspicion  again 
possessed  her,  and  the  sense  that  it  was  not  wholly  un 
justified  caused  him  a  passing  pang  of  shame.  But  it 
did  not  turn  him  from  his  purpose. 

"I'm  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Leath's.  It's  not  unnatural 
that  Madame  de  Chantelle  should  talk  to  me." 

She  dropped  the  screen  on  the  table  and  stood  up, 
turning  on  him  the  same  small  mask  of  wrath  and 
scorn  which  had  glared  at  him,  in  Paris,  when  he  had 
confessed  to  his  suppression  of  her  letter.  She  walked 
away  a  step  or  two  and  then  came  back. 

"May  I  ask  what  Madame  de  Chantelle  said  to  you  ?" 

"She  made  it  clear  that  she  should  not  encourage  the 
marriage." 

"And  what  was  her  object  in  making  that  clear  to 
you.?" 

Darrow  hesitated.     "I  suppose  she  thought " 

"That  she  could  persuade  y#u  to  turn  Mrs.  Leath 
against  me?" 

He  was  silent,  and  she  pressed  him :  "Was  that  it  ?" 

"That  was  it." 

"But  if  you  don't-r-if  you  keep  your  promise " 

"My  promise?" 

[204] 


THE     REEF 

"To  say  nothing  .  .  .  nothing  whatever  .  .  ."  Her 
strained  look  threw  a  haggard  light  along  the  pause. 

As  she  spoke,  the  whole  odiousness  of  the  scene 
rushed  over  him.  "Of  course  I  shall  say  nothing  .  .  . 
you  know  that  ..."  He  leaned  to  her  and  laid  his 
hand  on  hers.  "You  know  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  .  .  ." 

She  drew  back  and  hid  her  face  with  a  sob.  Then  she 
sank  again  into  her  seat,  stretched  her  arms  across  the 
table  and  laid  her  face  upon  them.  He  sat  still,  over 
whelmed  with  compunction.  After  a  long  interval,  in 
which  he  had  painfully  measured  the  seconds  by  her  hard- 
drawn  breathing,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  face  washed 
clear  of  bitterness. 

"Don't  suppose  I  don't  know  what  you  must  have 
thought  of  me !" 

The  cry  struck  him  down  to  a  lower  depth  of  self- 
abasement.  "My  poor  child,"  he  felt  like  answering,  "the 
shame  of  it  is  that  I've  never  thought  of  you  at  all !"  But 
he  could  only  uselessly  repeat :  "I'll  do  anything  I  can  to 
help  you." 

She  sat  silent,  drumming  the  table  with  her  hand. 
He  saw  that  her  doubt  of  him  was  allayed,  and  the  per 
ception  made  him  more  ashamed,  as  if  her  trust  had  first 
revealed  to  him  how  near  he  had  come  to  not  deserving  it. 
Suddenly  she  began  to  speak. 

"You  think,  then,  I've  no  right  to  marry  him?"  ? 

"No  right?    God  forbid!    I  only  meant " 

"That  you'd  rather  I  didn't  marry  any  friend  of 
yours."  She  brought  it  out  deliberately,  not  as  a  ques 
tion,  but  as  a  mere  dispassionate  statement  of  fact. 

Darrow  in  turn  stood  up  and  wandered  away  helplessly 
[205] 


THE     REEF 

to  the  window.  He  stood  staring  out  through  its  small 
discoloured  panes  at  the  dim  brown  distances;  then  he 
moved  back  to  the  table. 

"I'll  tell  you  exactly  what  I  meant.  You'll  be  wretched 
if  you  marry  a  man  you're  not  in  love  with." 

He  knew  the  risk  of  misapprehension  that  he  ran,  but 
he  estimated  his  chances  of  success  as  precisely  in  pro 
portion  to  his  peril.  If  certain  signs  meant  what  he 
thought  they  did,  he  might  yet — at  what  cost  he  would 
not  stop  to  think — make  his  past  pay  for  his  future. 

The  girl,  at  his  words,  had  lifted  her  head  with  a  move 
ment  of  surprise.  Her  eyes  slowly  reached  his  face  and 
rested  there  in  a  gaze  of  deep  interrogation.  He  held  the 
look  for  a  moment;  then  his  own  eyes  dropped  and  he 
waited. 

At  length  she  began  to  speak.  "You're  mistaken — 
you're  quite  mistaken." 

He  waited  a  moment  longer.    "Mistaken ?" 

"In  thinking  what  you  think.  I'm  as  happy  as  if  I  de 
served  it!"  she  suddenly  proclaimed  with  a  laugh. 

She  stood  up  and  moved  toward  the  door.  "Now  are 
you  satisfied?"  she  asked,  turning  her  vividest  face  to 
him  from  the  threshold. 


XXI 


DOWN  the  avenue  there  came  to  them,  with  the 
opening  of  the  door,  the  voice  of  Owen's  motor. 
It  was  the  signal  which  had  interrupted  their  first  talk, 
and  again,  instinctively,  they  drew  apart  at  the  sound. 

[206] 


THE     REEF 

Without  a  word  Darrow  turned  back  into  the  room, 
while  Sophy  Viner  went  down  the  steps  and  walked  back 
alone  toward  the  court. 

At  luncheon  the  presence  of  the  surgeon,  and  the  non- 
appearance  of  Madame  de  Chantelle — who  had  excused 
herself  on  the  plea  of  a  headache — combined  to  shift  the 
conversational  centre  of  gravity;  and  Darrow,  under 
shelter  of  the  necessarily  impersonal  talk,  had  time  to  ad 
just  his  disguise  and  to  perceive  that  the  others  were  en 
gaged  in  the  same  re-arrangement.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  he  had  seen  young  Leath  and  Sophy  Viner  together 
since  he  had  learned  of  their  engagement ;  but  neither  re 
vealed  more  emotion  than  befitted  the  occasion.  It  was 
evident  that  Owen  was  deeply  under  the  girl's  charm,  and 
that  at  the  least  sign  from  her  his  bliss  would  have 
broken  bounds;  but  her  reticence  was  justified  by  the 
tacitly  recognized  fact  of  Madame  de  Chantelle's  disap 
proval.  This  also  visibly  weighed  on  Anna's  mind,  mak 
ing  her  manner  to  Sophy,  if  no  less  kind,  yet  a  trifle 
more  constrained  than  if  the  moment  of  final  under 
standing  had  been  reached.  So  Darrow  interpreted  the 
tension  perceptible  under  the  fluent  exchange  of  com 
monplaces  in  which  he  was  diligently  sharing.  But  he 
was  more  and  more  aware  of  his  inability  to  test  the 
moral  atmosphere  about  him :  he  was  like  a  man  in  fever 
testing  another's  temperature  by  the  touch. 

After  luncheon  Anna,  who  was  to  motor  the  surgeon 
home,  suggested  to  Darrow  that  he  should  accompany 
them.  Efiie  was  also  of  the  party;  and  Darrow  inferred 
that  Anna  wished  to  give  her  step-son  a  chance  to  be 
alone  with  his  betrothed.  On  the  way  back,  after  the 

[207] 


THE     REEF 

surgeon  had  been  left  at  his  door,  the  little  girl  sat  be 
tween  her  mother  and  Darrow,  and  her  presence  kept 
their  talk  from  taking  a  personal  turn.  Darrow  knew 
that  Mrs.  Leath  had  not  yet  told  Effie  of  the  relation  in 
which  he  was  to  stand  to  her.  The  premature  divulging 
of  Owen's  plans  had  thrown  their  own  into  the  back 
ground,  and  by  common  consent  they  continued,  in  the 
little  girl's  presence,  on  terms  of  an  informal  friendliness. 

The  sky  had  cleared  after  luncheon,  and  to  prolong 
their  excursion  they  returned  by  way  of  the  ivy-mantled 
ruin  which  was  to  have  been  the  scene  of  the  projected 
picnic.  This  circuit  brought  them  back  to  the  park  gates 
not  long  before  sunset,  and  as  Anna  wished  to  stop  at  the 
lodge  for  news  of  the  injured  child  Darrow  left  her  therq 
with  Effie  and  walked  on  alone  to  the  house.  He  had 
the  impression  that  she  was  slightly  surprised  at  his  not 
waiting  for  her;  but  his  inner  restlessness  vented  itself, 
in  an  intense  desire  for  bodily  movement.  He  would 
have  liked  to  walk  himself  into  a  state  of  torpor;  to 
tramp  on  for  hours  through  the  moist  winds  and  the 
healing  darkness  and  come  back  staggering  with  fatigue 
and  sleep.  But  he  had  no  pretext  for  such  a  flight,  and 
he  feared  that,  at  such  a  moment,  his  prolonged  ab 
sence  might  seem  singular  to  Anna. 

As  he  approached  the  house,  the  thought  of  her  near 
ness  produced  a  swift  reaction  of  mood.  It  was  as  if 
an  intenser  vision  of  her  had  scattered  his  perplexi 
ties  like  morning  mists.  At  this  moment,  wherever  she 
was,  he  knew  he  was  safely  shut  away  in  her  thoughts, 
and  the  knowledge  made  every  other  fact  dwindle  away 
to  a  shadow.  He  and  she  loved  each  other,  and  their  love 

[208] 


THE     REEF 

arched  over  them  open  and  ample  as  the  day:  in  all  its 
sunlit  spaces  there  was  no  cranny  for  a  fear  to  lurk.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  would  be  in  her  presence  and  would  read 
his  reassurance  in  her  eyes.  And  presently,  before  dinner, 
she  would  contrive  that  they  should  have  an  hour  by 
themselves  in  her  sitting-room,  and  he  would  sit  by  the 
hearth  and  watch  her  quiet  movements,  and  the  way  the 
bluish  lustre  on  her  hair  purpled  a  little  as  she  bent  above 
the  fire. 

A  carriage  drove  out  of  the  court  as  he  entered  it,  and 
in  the  hall  his  vision  was  dispelled  by  the  exceedingly  sub 
stantial  presence  of  a  lady  in  a  waterproof  and  a  tweed 
hat,  who  stood  firmly  planted  in  the  centre  of  a  pile  of 
luggage,  as  to  which  she  was  giving  involved  but  lucid 
directions  to  the  footman  who  had  just  admitted  her. 
She  went  on  with  these  directions  regardless  of  Dar- 
row's  entrance,  merely  fixing  her  small  pale  eyes  on 
him  while  she  proceeded,  in  a  deep  contralto  voice,  and  a 
fluent  French  pronounced  with  the  purest  Boston  accent, 
to  specify  the  destination  of  her  bags ;  and  this  enabled 
Da r row  to  give  her  back  a  gaze  protracted  enough  to 
take  in  all  the  details  of  her  plain  thick-set  person,  from 
the  square  sallow  face  beneath  bands  of  grey  hair  to 
the  blunt  boot-toes  protruding  under  her  wide  walking 
skirt. 

She  submitted  to  this  scrutiny  with  no  more  evidence  of 
surprise  than  a  monument  examined  by  a  tourist;  but 
when  the  fate  of  her  luggage  had  been  settled  she  turned 
suddenly  to  Darrow  and,  dropping  her  eyes  from  his  face 
to  his  feet,  asked  in  trenchant  accents:  "What  sort  of 
boots  have  you  got  on?" 

[209] 


THE     REEF 

Before  he  could  summon  his  wits  to  the  consideration 
of  this  question  she  continued  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  in 
dignation  :  "Until  Americans  get  used  to  the  fact  that 
France  is  under  water  for  half  the  year  they're  perpetu 
ally  risking  their  lives  by  not  being  properly  protected. 
I  suppose  you've  been  tramping  through  all  this  nasty 
clammy  mud  as  if  you'd  been  taking  a  stroll  on  Boston 
Common." 

Darrow,  with  a  laugh,  affirmed  his  previous  experience 
of  French  dampness,  and  the  degree  to  which  he  was  on 
his  guard  against  it;  but  the  lady,  with  a  contemptuous 

snort,  rejoined :  "You  young  men  are  all  alike " ;  to 

which  she  appended,  after  another  hard  look  at  him :  "I 
suppose  you're  George  Darrow?  I  used  to  know  one  of 
your  mother's  cousins,  who  married  a  Tunstall  of  Mount 
Vernon  Street.  My  name  is  Adelaide  Painter.  Have 
you  been  in  Boston  lately?  No?  I'm  sorry  for  that.  I 
hear  there  have  been  several  new  houses  built  at  the  lower 
end  of  Commonwealth  Avenue  and  I  hoped  you  could 
tell  me  about  them.  I  haven't  been  there  for  thirty  years 
myself." 

Miss  Painter's  arrival  at  Givre  produced  the  same  ef 
fect  as  the  wind's  hauling  around  to  the  north  after  days 
of  languid  weather.  When  Darrow  joined  the  group 
about  the  tea-table  she  had  already  given  a  tingle  to  the 
air.  Madame  de  Chantelle  still  remained  invisible  above 
stairs ;  but  Darrow  had  the  impression  that  even  through 
her  drawn  curtains  and  bolted  doors  a  stimulating  whiff 
must  have  entered. 

Anna  was  in  her  usual  seat  behind  the  tea-tray,  and 
Sophy  Viner  presently  led  in  her  pupil.  Owen  was  also 

[210] 


THE     REEF 

there,  seated,  as  usual,  a  little  apart  from  the  others,  and 
following  Miss  Painter's  massive  movements  and  equally 
substantial  utterances  with  a  smile  of  secret  intelligence 
which  gave  Darrow  the  idea  of  his  having  been  in  clan 
destine  parley  with  the  enemy.  Darrow  further  took  note 
that  the  girl  and  her  suitor  perceptibly  avoided  each 
other;  but  this  might  be  a  natural  result  of  the  tension 
Miss  Painter  had  been  summoned  to  relieve. 

Sophy  Viner  would  evidently  permit  no  recognition  of 
the  situation  save  that  which  it  lay  with  Madame  de 
Chantelle  to  accord ;  but  meanwhile  Miss  Painter  had  pro 
claimed  her  tacit  sense  of  it  by  summoning  the  girl  to  a 
seat  at  her  side. 

Darrow,  as  he  continued  to  observe  the  new-comer, 
who  was  perched  on  her  arm-chair  like  a  granite  image 
on  the  edge  of  a  cliff,  was  aware  that,  in  a  more 
detached  frame  of  mind,  he  would  have  found  an  ex 
treme  interest  in  studying  and  classifying  Miss  Painter. 
It  was  not  that  she  said  anything  remarkable,  or  betrayed 
any  of  those  unspoken  perceptions  which  give  significance 
to  the  most  commonplace  utterances.  She  talked  of  the 
lateness  of  her  train,  of  an  impending  crisis  in  interna 
tional  politics,  of  the  difficulty  of  buying  English  tea  in 
Paris  and  of  the  enormities  of  which  French  servants 
were  capable;  and  her  views  on  these  subjects  were  enun 
ciated  with  a  uniformity  of  emphasis  implying  complete 
unconsciousness  of  any  difference  in  their  interest  and 
importance.  She  always  applied  to  the  French  race  the 
distant  epithet  of  "those  people",  but  she  betrayed  an  inti 
mate  acquaintance  with  many  of  its  members,  and  an  en 
cyclopaedic  knowledge  of  the  domestic  habits,  financial 

[211] 


THE     REEF 

difficulties  and  private  complications  of  various  persons 
of  social  importance.  Yet,  as  she  evidently  felt  no  in 
congruity  in  her  attitude,  so  she  revealed  no  desire  to 
parade  her  familiarity  with  the  fashionable,  or  indeed 
any  sense  of  it  as  a  fact  to  be  paraded.  It  was  evident 
that  the  titled  ladies  whom  she  spoke  of  as  Mimi  or 
Simone  or  Odette  were  as  much  "those  people"  to  her  as 
the  bonne  who  tampered  with  her  tea  and  steamed  the 
stamps  off  her  letters  ("when,  by  a  miracle,  I  don't  put 
them  in  the  box  myself/')  Her  whole  attitude  was  of 
a  vast  grim  tolerance  of  things-as-they-came,  as  though 
she  had  been  some  wonderful  automatic  machine  which 
recorded  facts  but  had  not  yet  been  perfected  to  the  point 
of  sorting  or  labelling  them. 

All  this,  as  Darrow  was  aware,  still  fell  short  of  ac 
counting  for  the  influence  she  obviously  exerted  on  the 
persons  in  contact  with  her.  It  brought  a  slight  relief 
to  his  state  of  tension  to  go  on  wondering,  while  he 
watched  and  listened,  just  where  the  mystery  lurked. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  in  the  fact  of  her  blank  in 
sensibility,  an  insensibility  so  devoid  of  egotism  that  it 
had  no  hardness  and  no  grimaces,  but  rather  the  fresh 
ness  of  a  simpler  mental  state.  After  living,  as  he  had, 
as  they  all  had,  for  the  last  few  days,  in  an  atmosphere 
perpetually  tremulous  with  echoes  and  implications,  it  was 
restful  and  fortifying  merely  to  walk  into  the  big  blank 
area  of  Miss  Painter's  mind,  so  vacuous  for  all  its  ac 
cumulated  items,  so  echoless  for  all  its  vacuity. 

His  hope  of  a  word  with  Anna  before  dinner  was  dis 
pelled  by  her  rising  to  take  Miss  Painter  up  to  Madame 
de  Chantelle;  and  he  wandered  away  to  his  own  room, 

[212] 


THE     REEF 

leaving  Owen  and  Miss  Viner  engaged  in  working  out  a 
picture-puzzle  for  Effie. 

Madame  de  Chantelle — possibly  as  the  result  of  her 
friend's  ministrations — was  able  to  appear  at  the  dinner- 
table,  rather  pale  and  pink-nosed,  and  casting  tenderly 
reproachful  glances  at  her  grandson,  who  faced  them 
with  impervious  serenity;  and  the  situation  was  relieved 
by  the  fact  that  Miss  Viner,  as  usual,  had  remained  in 
the  school-room  with  hej-  pupil. 

Darrow  conjectured  that  the  real  clash  of  arms  would 
not  take  place  till  the  morrow;  and  wishing  to  leave  the 
field  open  to  the  contestants  he  set  out  early  on  a  soli 
tary  walk.  It  was  nearly  luncheon-time  when  he  re 
turned  from  it  and  came  upon  Anna  just  emerging  from 
the  house.  She  had  on  her  hat  and  jacket  and  was  ap 
parently  coming  forth  to  seek  him,  for  she  said  at  once : 
"Madame  de  Chantelle  wants  you  to  go  up  to  her." 

"To  go  up  to  her  ?    Now  ?" 

"That's  the  message  she  sent.  She  appears  to  rely  on 
you  to  do  something."  She  added  with  a  smile :  "What 
ever  it  is,  let's  have  it  over !" 

Darrow,  through  his  rising  sense  of  apprehension, 
wondered  why,  instead  of  merely  going  for  a  walk,  he 
had  not  jumped  into  the  first  train  and  got  out  of  the 
way  till  Owen's  affairs  were  finally  settled. 

"But  what  in  the  name  of  goodness  can  I  do  ?"  he  pro 
tested,  following  Anna  back  into  the  hall. 

"I  don't  know.  But  Owen  seems  so  to  rely  on  you, 
too " 

"Owen!    Is  he  to  be  there?" 

"No.  But  you  know  I  told  him  he  could  count  on  you." 
[213] 


THE     REEF 

"But  I've  said  to  your  mother-in-law  all  I  could." 

"Well,  then  you  can  only  repeat  it." 

This  did  not  seem  to  Darrow  to  simplify  his  case  as 
much  as  she  appeared  to  think;  and  once  more  he  had 
a  movement  of  recoil.  "There's  no  possible  reason  for 
my  being  mixed  up  in  this  affair!" 

Anna  gave  him  a  reproachful  glance.  "Not  the  fact 
that  /  am  ?"  she  reminded  him ;  but  even  this  only  stiffened 
his  resistance. 

"Why  should  you  be,  either — to  this  extent  ?" 

The  question  made  her  pause.  She  glanced  about  the 
hall,  as  if  to  be  sure  they  had  it  to  themselves ;  and  then, 
in  a  lowered  voice:  "I  don't  know,"  she  suddenly  con 
fessed;  "but,  somehow,  if  they're  not  happy  I  feel  as  if 
we  shouldn't  be." 

"Oh,  well — "  Darrow  acquiesced,  in  the  tone  of  the 
man  who  perforce  yields  to  so  lovely  an  unreasonableness. 
Escape  was,  after  all,  impossible,  and  he  could  only 
resign  himself  to  being  led  to  Madame  de  Chantelle's 
door. 

Within,  among  the  bric-a-brac  and  furbelows,  he  found 
Miss  Painter  seated  in  a  redundant  purple  armchair  with 
the  incongruous  air  of  a  horseman  bestriding  a  heavy 
mount.  Madame  de  Chantelle  sat  opposite,  still  a  little 
wan  and  disordered  under  her  elaborate  hair,  and  clasp 
ing  the  handkerchief  whose  visibility  symbolized  her  dis 
tress.  On  the  young  man's  entrance  she  sighed  out  a 
plaintive  welcome,  to  which  she  immediately  appended: 
"Mr.  Darrow,  I  can't  help  feeling  that  at  heart  you're 
with  me !" 

The  directness  of  the  challenge  made  it  easier  for  Dar- 


THE     REEF 

row  to  protest,  and  he  reiterated  his  inability  to  give  an 
opinion  on  either  side. 

"But  Anna  declares  you  have — on  hers !" 

He  could  not  restrain  a  smile  at  this  faint  flaw  in  an 
impartiality  so  scrupulous.  Every  evidence  of  feminine 
inconsequence  in  Anna  seemed  to  attest  her  deeper  sub 
jection  to  the  most  inconsequent  of  passions.  He  had 
certainly  promised  her  his  help — but  before  he  knew 
what  he  was  promising. 

He  met  Madame  de  Chantelle's  appeal  by  replying: 
"If  there  were  anything  I  could  possibly  say  I  should 
want  it  to  be  in  Miss  Viner's  favour." 

"You'd  want  it  to  be — yes  !    But  could  you  make  it  so  ?" 

"As  far  as  facts  go,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  make  it 
either  for  or  against  her.  I've  already  said  that  I  know 
nothing  of  her  except  that  she's  charming." 

"As  if  that  weren't  enough — weren't  all  there  ought 
to  be!"  Miss  Painter  put  in  impatiently.  She  seemed 
to  address  herself  to  Darrow,  though  her  small  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her  friend. 

"Madame  de  Chantelle  seems  to  imagine,"  she  pur 
sued,  "that  a  young  American  girl  ought  to  have  a  dos 
sier — a  police-record,  or  whatever  you  call  it :  what  those 
awful  women  in  the  streets  have  here.  In  our  country 
it's  enough  to  know  that  a  young  girl's  pure  and  lovely : 
people  don't  immediately  ask  her  to  show  her  bank-ac 
count  and  her  visiting-list." 

Madame  de  Chantelle  looked  plaintively  at  her  sturdy 
monitress.  "You  don't  expect  me  not  to  ask  if  she's  got  a 
family?" 

"No ;  nor  to  think  the  worse  of  her  if  she  hasn't.    The 
[215] 


THE     REEF 

fact  that  she's  an  orphan  ought,  with  your  ideas,  to  be  a 
merit.  You  won't  have  to  invite  her  father  and  mother 
to  Givre !" 

"Adelaide — Adelaide !"  the  mistress  of  Givre  lamented. 

"Lucretia  Mary,"  the  other  returned — and  Darrow 
spared  an  instant's  amusement  to  the  quaint  incongruity 
of  the  name — "you  know  you  sent  for  Mr.  Darrow  to 
refute  me ;  and  how  can  he,  till  he  knows  what  I  think  ?" 

"You  think  it's  perfectly  simple  to  let  Owen  marry  a 
girl  we  know  nothing  about  ?" 

"No;  but  I  don't  think  it's  perfectly  simple  to  prevent 
him." 

The  shrewdness  of  the  answer  increased  Darrow's  in 
terest  in  Miss  Painter.  She  had  not  hitherto  struck  him 
as  being  a  person  of  much  penetration,  but  he  now  felt 
sure  that  her  gimlet  gaze  might  bore  to  the  heart  of  any; 
practical  problem. 

Madame  de  Chantelle  sighed  out  her  recognition  of  the 
difficulty. 

"I  haven't  a  word  to  say  against  Miss  Viner ;  but  she's 
knocked  about  so,  as  it's  called,  that  she  must  have  been 
mixed  up  with  some  rather  dreadful  people.  If  only 
Owen  could  be  made  to  see  that — if  one  could  get  at  a 
few  facts,  I  mean.  She  says,  for  instance,  that  she  has  a 
sister ;  but  it  seems  she  doesn't  even  know  her  address !" 

"If  she  does,  she  may  not  want  to  give  it  to  you.  I 
daresay  the  sister's  one  of  the  dreadful  people.  I've  no 
doubt  that  with  a  little  time  you  could  rake  up  dozens  of 
them :  have  her  'traced',  as  they  call  it  in  detective  stories. 
I  don't  think  you'd  frighten  Owen,  but  you  might:  it's 
natural  enough  he  should  have  been  corrupted  by  those 

[216] 


THE     REEF 

foreign  ideas.  You  might  even  manage  to  part  him  from 
the  girl;  but  you  couldn't  keep  him  from  being  in  love 
with  her.  I  saw  that  when  I  looked  them  over  last 
evening.  I  said  to  myself:  'It's  a  real  old-fashioned 
American  case,  as  sweet  and  sound  as  home-made  bread.' 
Well,  if  you  take  his  loaf  away  from  him,  what  are  you 
going  to  feed  him  with  instead?  Which  of  your  nasty 
Paris  poisons  do  you  think  he'll  turn  to  ?  Supposing  you 
succeed  in  keeping  him  out  of  a  really  bad  mess — and, 
knowing  the  young  man  as  I  do,  I  rather  think  that,  at 
this  crisis,  the  only  way  to  do  it  would  be  to  marry  him 
slap  off  to  somebody  else — well,  then,  who,  may  I  ask, 
would  you  pick  out?  One  of  your  sweet  French 
ingenues,  I  suppose?  With  as  much  mind  as  a  minnow 
and  as  much  snap  as  a  soft-boiled  egg.  You  might 
hustle  him  into  that  kind  of  marriage;  I  daresay  you 
could — but  if  I  know  Owen,  the  natural  thing  would 
happen  before  the  first  baby  was  weaned." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  insinuate  such  odious  things 
against  Owen!" 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  odious  of  him  to  return  to 
his  real  love  when  he'd  been  forcibly  parted  from  her? 
At  any  rate,  it's  what  your  French  friends  do,  every  one 
of  them!  Only  they  don't  generally  have  the  grace  to 
go  back  to  an  old  love;  and  I  believe,  upon  my  word, 
Owen  would!" 

Madame  de  Chantelle  looked  at  her  with  a  mixture 
of  awe  and  exultation.  "Of  course  you  realize, -Adelaide, 
that  in  suggesting  this  you're  insinuating  the  most  shock 
ing  things  against  Miss  Viner?" 

"When  I  say  that  if  you  part  two  young  things  who 
[217] 


THE     REEF 

are  dying  to  be  happy  in  the  lawful  way  it's  ten  to  one 
they'll  come  together  in  an  unlawful  one?  I'm  insinuat 
ing  shocking  things  against  you,  Lucretia  Mary,  in  sug 
gesting  for  a  moment  that  you'll  care  to  assume  such  a 
responsibility  before  your  Maker.  And  you  wouldn't, 
if  you  talked  things  straight  out  with  him,  instead  of 
merely  sending  him  messages  through  a  miserable  sinner 
like  yourself !" 

Darrow  expected  this  assault  on  her  adopted  creed  to 
provoke  in  Madame  de  Chantelle  an  explosion  of  pious 
indignation;  but  to  his  surprise  she  merely  murmured: 
"I  don't  know  what  Mr.  Darrow'll  think  of  you !" 

"Mr.  Darrow  probably  knows  his  Bible  as  well  as  I 
do/'  Miss  Painter  calmly  rejoined;  adding  a  moment 
later,  without  the  least  perceptible  change  of  voice  or  ex 
pression  :  "I  suppose  you've  heard  that  Gisele  de  Folem- 
bray's  husband  accuses  her  of  being  mixed  up  with  the 
Due  d'Arcachon  in  that  business  of  trying  to  sell  a  lot  of 
imitation  pearls  to  Mrs.  Homer  Pond,  the  Chicago  woman 
the  Duke's  engaged  to?  It  seems  the  jeweller  says  Gisele 
brought  Mrs.  Pond  there,  and  got  twenty-five  per  cent — 
which  of  course  she  passed  on  to  d'Arcachon.  The  poor 
old  Duchess  is  in  a  fearful  state — so  afraid  her  son'll 
lose  Mrs.  Pond !  When  I  think  that  Gisele  is  old  Brad 
ford  Wagstaff's  grand-daughter,  I'm  thankful  he's  safe 
in  Mount  Auburn !" 


THE     REEF 


XXII 

IT  was  not  until  late  that  afternoon  that  Darrow  could 
claim  his  postponed  hour  with  Anna.  When  at  last 
he  found  her  alone  in  her  sitting-room  it  was  with  a 
sense  of  liberation  so  great  that  he  sought  no  logical 
justification  of  it.  He  simply  felt  that  all  their  destinies 
were  in  Miss  Painter's  grasp,  and  that,  resistance  being 
useless,  he  could  only  enjoy  the  sweets  of  surrender. 

Anna  herself  seemed  as  happy,  and  for  more  explicable 
reasons.  She  had  assisted,  after  luncheon,  at  another 
debate  between  Madame  de  Chantelle  and  her  confidant, 
and  had  surmised,  when  she  withdrew  from  it,  that  vic 
tory  was  permanently  perched  on  Miss  Painter's  banners. 

"I  don't  know  how  she  does  it,  unless  it's  by  the  dead 
weight  of  her  convictions.  She  detests  the  French  so  that 
she'd  back  up  Owen  even  if  she  knew  nothing — or  knew 
too  much — of  Miss  Viner.  She  somehow  regards  the  1 
match  as  a  protest  against  the  corruption  of  European 
morals.  I  told  Owen  that  was  his  great  chance,  and  he's 
made  the  most  of  it." 

"What  a  tactician  you  are !  You  make  me  feel  that  I 
hardly  know  the  rudiments  of  diplomacy,"  Darrow  smiled 
at  her,  abandoning  himself  to  a  perilous  sense  of  well- 
being. 

She  gave  him  back  his  smile.  "I'm  afraid  I  think  noth 
ing  short  of  my  own  happiness  is  worth  wasting  any  di 
plomacy  on !" 

15  [  219  ] 


THE     REEF 

"That's  why  I  mean  to  resign  from  the  service  of  my 
country,"  he  rejoined  with  a  laugh  of  deep  content. 

The  feeling  that  both  resistance  and  apprehension  were 
vain  was  working  like  wine  in  his  veins.  He  had  done 
what  he  could  to  deflect  the  course  of  events:  now  he 
could  only  stand  aside  and  take  his  chance  of  safety. 
Underneath  this  fatalistic  feeling  was  the  deep  sense  of 
relief  that  he  had,  after  all,  said  and  done  nothing  that 
could  in  the  least  degree  affect  the  welfare  of  Sophy 
Viner.  That  fact  took  a  millstone  off  his  neck. 

Meanwhile  he  gave  himself  up  once  more  to  the  joy 
of  Anna's  presence.  They  had  not  been  alone  together 
for  two  long  days,  and  he  had  the  lover's  sense  that  he 
had  forgotten,  or  at  least  underestimated,  the  strength 
of  the  spell  she  cast.  Once  more  her  eyes  and  her  smile 
seemed  to  bound  his  world.  He  felt  that  their  light 
would  always  move  with  him  as  the  sunset  moves  before 
a  ship  at  sea. 

The  next  day  his  sense  of  security  was  increased  by  a 
decisive  incident.  It  became  known  to  the  expectant 
household  that  Madame  de  Chantelle  had  yielded  to  the 
tremendous  impact  of  Miss  Painter's  determination  and 
that  Sophy  Viner  had  been  "sent  for"  to  the  purple  satin 
sitting-room. 

At  luncheon,  Owen's  radiant  countenance  proclaimed 
the  happy  sequel,  and  Darrow,  when  the  party  had  moved 
back  to  the  oak-room  for  coffee,  deemed  it  discreet  to 
wander  out  alone  to  the  terrace  with  his  cigar.  The  con 
clusion  of  Owen's  romance  brought  his  own  plans  once 
more  to  the  front.  Anna  had  promised  that  she  would 

[  220] 


THE     REEF 

consider  dates  and  settle  details  as  soon  as  Madame  de 
Chantelle  and  her  grandson  had  been  reconciled,  and 
Darrow  was  eager  to  go  into  the  question  at  once,  since 
it  was  necessary  that  the  preparations  for  his  marriage 
should  go  forward  as  rapidly  as  possible.  Anna,  he  knew, 
would  not  seek  any  farther  pretext  for  delay;  and  he 
strolled  up  and  down  contentedly  in  the  sunshine,  certain 
that  she  would  come  out  and  reassure  him  as  soon  as 
the  reunited  family  had  claimed  its  due  share  of  her  at 
tention. 

But  when  she  finally  joined  him  her  first  word  was  for 
the  younger  lovers. 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  what  you've  done  for  Owen," 
she  began,  with  her  happiest  smile. 

"Who — I  ?"  he  laughed.  "Are  you  confusing  me  with 
Miss  Painter?" 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  say  for  me,"  she  corrected  herself. 
"You've  been  even  more  of  a  help  to  us  than  Adelaide." 

"My  dear  child!    What  on  earth  have  I  done?" 

"You've  managed  to  hide  from  Madame  de  Chantelle 
that  you  don't  really  like  poor  Sophy." 

Darrow  felt  the  pallour  in  his  cheek.  "Not  like  her? 
What  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  more  than  an  idea — it's  a  feeling.  But  what 
difference  does  it  make,  after  all?  You  saw  her  in  such 
a  different  setting  that  it's  natural  you  should  be  a  little 
doubtful.  But  when  you  know  her  better  I'm  sure  you'll 
feel  about  her  as  I  do." 

"It's  going  to  be  hard  for  me  not  to  feel  about  every 
thing  as  you  do." 

"Well,  then — please  begin  with  my  daughter-in-law !" 
[221] 


THE     REEF 

He  gave  her  back  in  the  same  tone  of  banter :  "Agreed : 
if  you'll  agree  to  feel  as  I  do  about  the  pressing  necessity 
of  our  getting  married." 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  that  too.  You  don't 
know  what  a  weight  is  off  my  mind !  With  Sophy  here 
for  good,  I  shall  feel  so  differently  about  leaving  Effie. 
I've  seen  much  more  accomplished  governesses — to  my 
cost ! — but  I've  never  seen  a  young  thing  more  gay  and 
kind  and  human.  You  must  have  noticed,  though  you've 
seen  them  so  little  together,  how  Effie  expands  when  she's 
with  her.  And  that,  you  know,  is  what  I  want.  Madame 
de  Chantelle  will  provide  the  necessary  restraint."  She 
clasped  her  hands  on  his  arm.  "Yes,  I'm  ready  to  go 
with  you  now.  But  first  of  all — this  very  moment ! — you 
must  come  with  me  to  Effie.  She  knows,  of  course, 
nothing  of  what's  been  happening ;  and  I  want  her  to  be 
told  first  about  you." 

Effie,  sought  throughout  the  house,  was  presently 
traced  to  the  school-room,  and  thither  Darrow  mounted 
with  Anna.  He  had  never  seen  her  so  alight  with  hap 
piness,  and  he  had  caught  her  buoyancy  of  mood.  He 
kept  repeating  to  himself:  "It's  over — it's  over,"  as  if 
some  monstrous  midnight  hallucination  had  been  routed 
by  the  return  of  day. 

As  they  approached  the  school-room  door  the  terrier's 
barks  came  to  them  through  laughing  remonstrances. 

"She's  giving  him  his  dinner,"  Anna  whispered,  her 
hand  in  Darrow's. 

"Don't  forget  the  gold-fish !"  they  heard  another  voice 
call  out. 

Darrow  halted  on  the  threshold.     "Oh — not  now !" 

[222] 


THE     REEF 

"Not  now?" 

"I  mean — she'd  rather  have  you  tell  her  first.  I'll  wait 
for  you  both  downstairs." 

He  was  aware  that  she  glanced  at  him  intently.  "As 
you  please.  I'll  bring  her  down  at  once." 

She  opened  the  door,  and  as  she  went  in  he  heard  her 
say  :  "No,  Sophy,  don't  go !  I  want  you  both." 

The  rest  of  Darrow's  day  was  a  succession  of  empty 
and  agitating  scenes.  On  his  way  down  to  Givre,  before 
he  had  seen  Effie  Leath,  he  had  pictured  somewhat  sen 
timentally  the  joy  of  the  moment  when  he  should  take 
her  in  his  arms  and  receive  her  first  filial  kiss.  Every 
thing  in  him  that  egotistically  craved  for  rest,  stability,  a 
comfortably  organized  middle-age,  all  the  home-building 
instincts  of  the  man  who  has  sufficiently  wooed  and  wan 
dered,  combined  to  throw  a  charm  about  the  figure  of 
the  child  who  might — who  should — have  been  his.  Effie 
came  to  him  trailing  the  cloud  of  glory  of  his  first  ro 
mance,  giving  him  back  the  magic  hour  he  had  missed 
and  mourned.  And  how  different  the  realization  of 
his  dream  had  been!  The  child's  radiant  welcome,  her 
unquestioning  acceptance  of  this  new  figure  in  the 
family  group,  had  been  all  that  he  had  hoped  and 
fancied.  If  Mother  was  so  awfully  happy  about  it,  and 
Owen  and  Granny,  too,  how  nice  and  cosy  and  comfort 
able  it  was  going  to  be  for  all  of  them,  her  beaming  look 
seemed  to  say ;  and  then,  suddenly,  the  small  pink  fingers 
he  had  been  kissing  were  laid  on  the  one  flaw  in  the 
circle,  on  the  one  point  which  must  be  settled  before 
Effie  could,  with  complete  unqualified  assurance,  admit 

[223] 


THE     REEF 

the   new-comer   to    full    equality    with   the   other   gods 
of  her  Olympus. 

"And  is  Sophy  awfully  happy  about  it  too?"  she  had 
asked,  loosening  her  hold  on  Barrow's  neck  to  tilt  back 
her  head  and  include  her  mother  in  her  questioning  look. 

"Why,  dearest,  didn't  you  see  she  was?"  Anna  had 
exclaimed,  leaning  to  the  group  with  radiant  eyes. 

"I  think  I  should  like  to  ask  her,"  the  child  rejoined, 
after  a  minute's  shy  consideration;  and  as  Darrow  set 
her  down  her  mother  laughed:  "Do,  darling,  do!  Run 
off  at  once,  and  tell  her  we  expect  her  to  be  awfully 
happy  too." 

The  scene  had  been  succeeded  by  others  less  poignant 
but  almost  as  trying.  Darrow  cursed  his  luck  in  having, 
at  such  a  moment,  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  a  houseful  of  in 
terested  observers.  The  state  of  being  "engaged",  in  it 
self  an  absurd  enough  predicament,  even  to  a  man  only 
intermittently  exposed,  became  intolerable  under  the  con 
tinuous  scrutiny  of  a  small  circle  quivering  with  par 
ticipation.  Darrow  was  furthermore  aware  that,  though 
the  case  of  the  other  couple  ought  to  have  made  his  own 
less  conspicuous,  it  was  rather  they  who  found  a  refuge 
in  the  shadow  of  his  prominence.  Madame  de  Chantelle, 
though  she  had  consented  to  Owen's  engagement  .and 
formally  welcomed  his  betrothed,  was  nevertheless  not 
sorry  to  show,  by  her  reception  of  Darrow,  of  what 
finely-shaded  degrees  of  cordiality  she  was  capable.  Miss 
Painter,  having  won  the  day  for  Owen,  was  also  free  to 
turn  her  attention  to  the  newer  candidate  for  her  sym 
pathy;  and  Darrow  and  Anna  found  themselves  im 
mersed  in  a  warm  bath  of  sentimental  curiosity. 

[224] 


THE     REEF 

It  was  a  relief  to  Darrow  that  he  was  under  a  positive 
obligation  to  end  his  visit  within  the  next  forty-eight 
hours.  When  he  left  London,  his  Ambassador  had  ac 
corded  him  a  ten  days'  leave.  His  fate  being  definitely 
settled  and  openly  published  he  had  no  reason  for  asking 
to  have  the  time  prolonged,  and  when  it  was  over  he 
was  to  return  to  his  post  till  the  time  fixed  for  taking  up 
his  new  duties.  Anna  and  he  had  therefore  decided  to  be 
married,  in  Paris,  a  day  or  two  before  the  departure  of 
the  steamer  which  was  to  take  them  to  South  America ; 
and  Anna,  shortly  after  his  return  to  England,  was  to  go 
up  to  Paris  and  begin  her  own  preparations. 

In  honour  of  the  double  betrothal  Effie  and  Miss 
Viner  were  to  appear  that  evening  at  dinner;  and  Dar 
row,  on  leaving  his  room,  met  the  little  girl  springing 
down  the  stairs,  her  white  ruffles  and  coral-coloured 
bows  making  her  look  like  a  daisy  with  her  yellow  hair 
for  its  centre.  Sophy  Viner  was  behind  her  pupil,  and 
as  she  came  into  the  light  Darrow  noticed  a  change  in 
her  appearance  and  wondered  vaguely  why  she  looked 
suddenly  younger,  more  vivid,  more  like  the  little 
luminous  ghost  of  his  Paris  memories.  Then  it  occurred 
to  him  that  it  was  the  first  time  she  had  appeared  at 
dinner  since  his  arrival  at  Givre,  and  the  first  time,  con 
sequently,  that  he  had  seen  her  in  evening  dress.  She 
was  still  at  the  age  when  the  least  adornment  embellishes ; 
and  no  doubt  the  mere  uncovering  of  her  young  throat 
and  neck  had  given  her  back  her  former  brightness. 
But  a  second  glance  showed  a  more  precise  reason  for  his 
impression.  Vaguely  though  he  retained  such  details,  he 
felt  sure  she  was  wearing  the  dress  he  had  seen  her  in 

[225] 


THE     REEF 

every  evening  in  Paris.  It  was  a  simple  enough  dress, 
black,  and  transparent  on  the  arms  and  shoulders,  and  he 
would  probably  not  have  recognized  it  if  she  had  not 
called  his  attention  to  it  in  Paris  by  confessing  that 
she  hadn't  any  other.  "The  same  dress?  That  proves 
that  she's  forgotten!"  was  his  first  half-ironic  thought; 
but  the  next  moment,  with  a  pang  of  compunction,  he 
said  to  himself  that  she  had  probably  put  it  on  for  the 
same  reason  as  before:  simply  because  she  hadn't  any 
other. 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence,  and  for  an  instant,  above 
Effie's  bobbing  head,  she  gave  him  back  his  look  in  a 
full  bright  gaze. 

"Oh,  there's  Owen!"  Effie  cried,  and  whirled  away 
down  the  gallery  to  the  door  from  which  her  step-brother 
was  emerging.  As  Owen  bent  to  catch  her,  Sophy  Viner 
turned  abruptly  back  to  Darrow. 

"You,  too?"  she  said  with  a  quick  laugh.  "I  didn't 

know "  And  as  Owen  came  up  to  them  she  added,  in 

a  tone  that  might  have  been  meant  to  reach  his  ear:  "I 
wish  you  all  the  luck  that  we  can  spare !" 

About  the  dinner-table,  which  Eftie,  with  Miss  Viner's 
aid,  had  lavishly  garlanded,  the  little  party  had  an  air 
of  somewhat  self-conscious  festivity.  In  spite  of  flowers, 
champagne  and  a  unanimous  attempt  at  ease,  there  were 
frequent  lapses  in  the  talk,  and  moments  of  nervous 
groping  for  new  subjects.  Miss  Painter  alone  seemed 
not  only  unaffected  by  the  general  perturbation  but  as 
tightly  sealed  up  in  her  unconsciousness  of  it  as  a  diver 
in  his  bell.  To  Darrow's  strained  attention  even  Owen's 
gusts  of  gaiety  seemed  to  betray  an  inward  sense  of  in- 

226 


THE     REEF 

security.  After  dinner,  however,  at  the  piano,  he 
broke  into  a  mood  of  extravagant  hilarity  and 
flooded  the  room  with  the  splash  and  ripple  of  his 
music. 

Darrow,  sunk  in  a  sofa  corner  in  the  lee  of  Miss  Paint 
er's  granite  bulk,  smoked  and  listened  in  silence,  his  eyes 
moving  from  one  figure  to  another.  Madame  de  Chan- 
telle,  in  her  armchair  near  the  fire,  clasped  her  lit 
tle  granddaughter  to  her  with  the  gesture  of  a  drawing- 
room  Niobe,  and  Anna,  seated  near  them,  had  fallen  into 
one  of  the  attitudes  of  vivid  calm  which  seemed  to  Dar 
row  to  express  her  inmost  quality.  Sophy  Viner,  after 
moving  uncertainly  about  the  room,  had  placed  her 
self  beyond  Mrs.  Leath,  in  a  chair  near  the  piano, 
where  she  sat  with  head  thrown  back  and  eyes  attached 
to  the  musician,  in  the  same  rapt  fixity  of  attention  with 
which  she  had  followed  the  players  at  the  Frangais.  The 
accident  of  her  having  fallen  into  the  same  attitude,  and 
of  her  wearing  the  same  dress,  gave  Darrow,  as  he 
watched  her,  a  strange  sense  of  double  consciousness. 
To  escape  from  it,  his  glance  turned  back  to  Anna ;  but 
from  the  point  at  which  he  was  placed  his  eyes  could 
not  take  in  the  one  face  without  the  other,  and  that  re 
newed  the  disturbing  duality  of  the  impression.  Sud 
denly  Owen  broke  off  with  a  crash  of  chords  and  jumped 
to  his  feet. 

"What's  the  use  of  this,  with  such  a  moon  to  say  it  for 
us?" 

Behind  the  uncurtained  window  a  low  golden  orb  hung 
like  a  ripe  fruit  against  the  glass. 

"Yes — let's  go  out  and  listen,"  Anna  answered.    Owen 

[227] 


THE     REEF 

threw  open  the  window,  and  with  his  gesture  a  fold  of 
the  heavy  star-sprinkled  sky  seemed  to  droop  into  the 
room  like  a  drawn-in  curtain.  The  air  that  entered  with 
it  had  a  frosty  edge,  and  Anna  bade  Effie  run  to  the  hall 
for  wraps. 

Darrow  said:  "You  must  have  one  too,"  and  started 
toward  the  door;  but  Sophy,  following  her  pupil,  cried 
back :  "We'll  bring  things  for  everybody." 

Owen  had  followed  her,  and  in  a  moment  the  three 
reappeared,  and  the  party  went  out  on  the  terrace.  The 
deep  blue  purity  of  the  night  was  unveiled  by  mist,  and 
the  moonlight  rimmed  the  edges  of  the  trees  with  a  silver 
blur  and  blanched  to  unnatural  whiteness  the  statues 
against  their  walls  of  shade. 

Darrow  and  Anna,  with  Effie  between  them,  strolled 
to  the  farther  corner  of  the  terrace.  Below  them,  be 
tween  the  fringes  of  the  park,  the  lawn  sloped  dimly  to 
the  fields  above  the  river.  For  a  few  minutes  they  stood 
silently  side  by  side,  touched  to  peace  beneath  the  trem 
bling  beauty  of  the  sky.  When  they  turned  back,  Dar 
row  saw  that  Owen  and  Sophy  Viner,  who  had  gone 
down  the  steps  to  the  garden,  were  also  walking  in  the 
direction  of  the  house.  As  they  advanced,  Sophy  paused 
in  a  patch  of  moonlight,  between  the  sharp  shadows  of  the 
yews,  and  Darrow  noticed  that  she  had  thrown  over  her 
shoulders  a  long  cloak  of  some  light  colour,  which  sud 
denly  evoked  her  image  as  she  had  entered  the  restaurant 
at  his  side  on  the  night  of  their  first  dinner  in  Paris. 
A  moment  later  they  were  all  together  again  on  the 
terrace,  and  when  they  re-entered  the  drawing-room  the 
older  ladies  were  on  their  way  to  bed. 


THE     REEF 

Effie,  emboldened  by  the  privileges  of  the  evening-,  was 
for  coaxing  Owen  to  round  it  off  with  a  game  of  forfeits 
or  some  such  reckless  climax;  but  Sophy,  resuming  her 
professional  role,  sounded  the  summons  to  bed.  In  her 
pupil's  wake  she  made  her  round  of  good-nights;  but 
when  she  proffered  her  hand  to  Anna,  the  latter  ignoring 
the  gesture  held  out  both  arms. 

"Good-night,  dear  child/'  she  said  impulsively,  and 
drew  the  girl  to  her  kiss. 


BOOK    IV 


BOO^K    IV 

XXIII 

THE  next  day  was  Barrow's  last  at  Givre  and,  fore 
seeing  that  the  afternoon  and  evening  would  have 
to  be  given  to  the  family,  he  had  asked  Anna  to  devote  an 
early  hour  to  the  final  consideration  of  their  plans.  He 
was  to  meet  her  in  the  brown  sitting-room  at  ten,  and  they 
were  to  walk  down  to  the  river  and  talk  over  their  future 
in  the  little  pavilion  abutting  on  the  wall  of  the  park. 

It  was  just  a  week  since  his  arrival  at  Givre,  and  Anna 
wished,  before  he  left,  to  return  to  the  place  where  they 
had  sat  on  their  first  afternoon  together.  Her  sensitive 
ness  to  the  appeal  of  inanimate  things,  to  the  colour  and 
texture  of  whatever  wove  itself  into  the  substance  of  her 
emotion,  made  her  want  to  hear  Darrow's  voice,  and  to 
feel  his  eyes  on  her,  in  the  spot  where  bliss  had  first 
flowed  into  her  heart. 

That  bliss,  in  the  interval,  had  wound  itself  into  every 
fold  of  her  being.  Passing,  in  the  first  days,  from  a 
high  shy  tenderness  to  the  rush  of  a  secret  surrender, 
it  had  gradually  widened  and  deepened,  to  flow  on  in  re 
doubled  beauty.  She  thought  she  now  knew  exactly  how 
and  why  she  loved  Darrow,  and  she  could  see  her  whole 
sky  reflected  in  the  deep  and  tranquil  current  of  her  love. 

[233] 


THE     REEF 

Early  the  next  day,  in  her  sitting-room,  she  was  gianc- 
ing  through  the  letters  which  it  was  Effie's  morning 
privilege  to  carry  up  to  her.  Effie  meanwhile  circled  in 
quisitively  about  the  room,  where  there  was  always 
something  new  to  engage  her  infant  fancy;  and  Anna, 
looking  up,  saw  her  suddenly  arrested  before  a  photo 
graph  of  Darrow  which,  the  day  before,  had  taken  its 
place  on  the  writing-table. 

Anna  held  out  her  arms  with  a  faint  blush.  "You  do 
like  him,  don't  you,  dear?" 

"Oh,  most  awfully,  dearest,"  Effie,  against  her  breast, 
leaned  back  to  assure  her  with  a  limpid  look.  "And  so 
do  Granny  and  Owen — and  I  do  think  Sophy  does  too," 
she  added,  after  a  moment's  earnest  pondering. 

"I  hope  so,"  Anna  laughed.  She  checked  the  impulse 
to  continue :  "Has  she  talked  to  you  about  him,  that  you're 
so  sure  ?"  She  did  not  know  what  had  made  the  question 
spring  to  her  lips,  but  she  was  glad  she  had  closed  them 
before  pronouncing  it.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
distasteful  to  her  than  to  clear  up  such  obscurities  by 
turning  on  them  the  tiny  flame  of  her  daughter's  observa 
tion.  And  what,  after  all,  now  that  Owen's  happiness  was 
secured,  did  it  matter  if  there  were  certain  reserves  in 
Darrow's  approval  of  his  marriage? 

A  knock  on  the  door  made  Anna  glance  at  the  clock. 
"There's  Nurse  to  carry  you  off." 

"It's  Sophy's  knock/'  the  little  girl  answered,  jumping 
down  to  open  the  door;  and  Miss  Viner  in  fact  stood 
on  the  threshold. 

"Come  in,"  Anna  said  with  a  smile,  instantly  remark 
ing  how  pale  she  looked. 

[234] 


THE     REEF 

"May  Effie  go  out  for  a  turn  with  Nurse?"  the  girl 
asked.  "I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  a  moment/' 

"Of  course.  This  ought  to  be  your  holiday,  as  yes 
terday  was  Effie's.  Run  off,  dear,"  she  added,  stooping 
to  kiss  the  little  girl. 

When  the  door  had  closed  she  turned  back  to  Sophy 
Viner  with  a  look  that  sought  her  confidence.  "I'm  so 
glad  you  came,  my  dear.  We've  got  so  many  things 
to  talk  about,  just  you  and  I  together." 

The  confused  intercourse  of  the  last  days  had,  in  fact, 
left  little  time  for  any  speech  with  Sophy  but  such  as  re-, 
lated  to  her  marriage  and  the  means  of  overcoming  Ma 
dame  de  Chantelle's  opposition  to  it.  Anna  had  exacted 
of  Owen  that  no  one,  not  even  Sophy  Viner,  should  be 
given  a  hint  of  her  own  projects  till  all  contingent  ques 
tions  had  been  disposed  of.  She  had  felt,  from  the  out 
set,  a  secret  reluctance  to  intrude  her  securer  happiness 
on  the  doubts  and  fears  of  the  young  pair. 

From  the  sofa-corner  to  which  she  had  dropped  back 
she  pointed  to  Darrow's  chair.  "Come  and  sit  by  me, 
dear.  I  wanted  to  see  you  alone.  There's  so  much  to 
say  that  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin." 

She  leaned  forward,  her  hands  clasped  on  the  arms  of 
the  sofa,  her  eyes  bent  smilingly  on  Sophy's.  As  she  did 
so,  she  noticed  that  the  girl's  unusual  pallour  was  partly 
due  to  the  slight  veil  of  powder  on  her  face.  The  discov 
ery  was  distinctly  disagreeable.  Anna  had  never  before 
noticed,  on  Sophy's  part,  any  recourse  to  cosmetics,  and, 
much  as  she  wished  to  think  herself  exempt  from  old- 
fashioned  prejudices,  she  suddenly  became  aware  that 
she  did  not  like  her  daughter's  governess  to  have  a  pow- 

16  [235] 


THE     REEF 

dered  face.  Then  she  reflected  that  the  girl  who  sat  op 
posite  her  was  no  longer  Effie's  governess,  but  her  own 
future  daughter-in-law ;  and  she  wondered  whether  Miss 
Viner  had  chosen  this  odd  way  of  celebrating  her  inde 
pendence,  and  whether,  as  Mrs.  Owen  Leath,  she  would 
present  to  the  world  a  bedizened  countenance.  This  idea 
was  scarcely  less  distasteful  than  the  other,  and  for  a 
moment  Anna  continued  to  consider  her  without  speak 
ing.  Then,  in  a  flash,  the  truth  came  to  her :  Miss  Viner 
had  powdered  her  face  because  Miss  Viner  had  been 
crying. 

Anna  leaned  forward  impulsively.  "My  dear  child, 
what's  the  matter?"  She  saw  the  girl's  blood  rush  up 
under  the  white  mask,  and  hastened  on :  "Please  don't  be 
afraid  to  tell  me.  I  do  so  want  you  to  feel  that  you  can 
trust  me  as  Owen  does.  And  you  know  you  mustn't 
mind  if,  just  at  first,  Madame  de  Chantelle  occasionally 
relapses." 

She  spoke  eagerly,  persuasively,  almost  on  a  note  of 
pleading.  She  had,  in  truth,  so  many  reasons  for  want 
ing  Sophy  to  like  her :  her  love  for  Owen,  her  solicitude 
for  Effie,  and  her  own  sense  of  the  girl's  fine  mettle.  She 
had  always  felt  a  romantic  and  almost  humble  admira 
tion  for  those  members  of  her  sex  who,  from  force  of 
will,  or  the  constraint  of  circumstances,  had  plunged  into 
the  conflict  from  which  fate  had  so  persistently  excluded 
her.  There  were  even  moments  when  she  fancied  her 
self  vaguely  to  blame  for  her  immunity,  and  felt  that  she 
ought  somehow  to  have  affronted  the  perils  and  hard 
ships  which  refused  to  come  to  her.  And  now,  as 
she  sat  looking  at  Sophy  Viner,  so  small,  so  slight,  so 

[236] 


THE     REEF 

visibly  defenceless  and  undone,  she  still  felt,  through 
all  the  superiority  of  her  worldly  advantages  and  her 
seeming  maturity,  the  same  odd  sense  of  ignorance  and 
inexperience.  She  could  not  have  said  what  there 
was  in  the  girl's  manner  and  expression  to  give  her 
this  feeling,  but  she  was  reminded,  as  she  looked  at 
Sophy  Viner,  of  the  other  girls  she  had  known  in  her 
youth,  the  girls  who  seemed  possessed  of  a  secret  she  had 
missed.  Yes,  Sophy  Viner  had  their  look — almost  the 
obscurely  menacing  look  of  Kitty  Mayne  .  .  .  Anna,  with 
an  inward  smile,  brushed  aside  the  image  of  this  forgot 
ten  rival.  But  she  had  felt,  deep  down,  a  twinge  of  the 
old  pain,  and  she  was  sorry  that,  even  for  the  flash  of 
a  thought,  Owen's  betrothed  should  have  reminded  her 
of  so  different  a  woman  .  .  . 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  girl's.  "When  his  grand 
mother  sees  how  happy  Owen  is  she'll  be  quite  happy  her 
self.  If  it's  only  that,  don't  be  distressed.  Just  trust  to 
Owen — and  the  future." 

Sophy  Viner,  with  an  almost  imperceptible  recoil  of  her 
whole  slight  person,  had  drawn  her  hand  from  under 
the  palm  enclosing  it. 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about — the  fu 
ture." 

"Of  course!  We've  all  so  many  plans  to  make — and 
to  fit  into  each  other's.  Please  let's  begin  with  yours." 

The  girl  paused  a  moment,  her  hands  clasped  on  the 
arms  of  her  chair,  her  lids  dropped  under  Anna's  gaze; 
then  she  said :  "I  should  like  to  make  no  plans  at  all  ... 
just  yet  ..." 

"No  plans?" 

[237] 


THE     REEF 

"No — I  should  like  to  go  away  .  .  .  my  friends  the 
Farlows  would  let  me  go  to  them  ..."  Her  voice  grew 
firmer  and  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  add:  "I  should  like  to 
leave  today,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Anna  listened  with  a  rising  wonder. 

"You  want  to  leave  Givre  at  once  ?"  She  gave  the  idea 
a  moment's  swift  consideration.  "You  prefer  to  be  with 
your  friends  till  your  marriage  ?  I  understand  that — but 
surely  you  needn't  rush  off  today?  There  are  so  many 
details  to  discuss;  and  before  long,  you  know,  I  shall 
be  going  away  too." 

"Yes,  I  know."  The  girl  was  evidently  trying  to  steady 
her  voice.  "But  I  should  like  to  wait  a  few  days — to 
have  a  little  more  time  to  myself." 

Anna  continued  to  consider  her  kindly.  It  was  evident 
that  she  did  not  care  to  say  why  she  wished  to  leave 
Givre  so  suddenly,  but  her  disturbed  face  and  shaken 
voice  betrayed  a  more  pressing  motive  than  the  natural 
desire  to  spend  the  weeks  before  her  marriage  under  her 
old  friends'  roof.  Since  she  had  made  no  response  to  the 
allusion  to  Madame  de  Chantelle,  Anna  could  but  con 
jecture  that  she  had  had  a  passing  disagreement  with 
Owen;  and  if  this  were  so,  random  interference  might 
do  more  harm  than  good. 

"My  dear  child,  if  you  really  want  to  go  at  once  I 
sha'n't,  of  course,  urge  you  to  stay.  I  suppose  you 
have  spoken  to  Owen?" 

"No.    Not  yet  ...  " 

Anna  threw  an  astonished  glance  at  her.  "You  mean 
to  say  you  haven't  told  him  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  first.  I  thought  I  ought  to,  on 
[238] 


THE     REEF 

account  of  Effie."  Her  look  cleared  as  she  put  forth  this 
reason. 

"Oh,  Effie ! — "  Anna's  smile  brushed  away  the  scruple. 
"Owen  has  a  right  to  ask  that  you  should  consider  him 
before  you  think  of  his  sister  ...  Of  course  you  shall 
do  just  as  you  wish,"  she  went  on,  after  another  thought 
ful  interval. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  Sophy  Viner  murmured  and  rose  to 
her  feet. 

Anna  rose  also,  vaguely  seeking  for  some  word  that 
should  break  down  the  girl's  resistance.  "You'll  tell 
Owen  at  once?"  she  finally  asked. 

Miss  Viner,  instead  of  replying,  stood  before  her  in 
manifest  uncertainty,  and  as  she  did  so  there  was  a 
light  tap  on  the  door,  and  Owen  Leath  walked  into  the 
room. 

Anna's  first  glance  told  her  that  his  face  was  un 
clouded.  He  met  her  greeting  with  his  happiest  smile 
and  turned  to  lift  Sophy's  hand  to  his  lips.  The  percep 
tion  that  he  was  utterly  unconscious  of  any  cause  for  Miss 
Viner's  agitation  came  to  his  step-mother  with  a  sharp 
thrill  of  surprise. 

"Barrow's  looking  for  you,"  he  said  to  her.  "He  asked 
me  to  remind  you  that  you'd  promised  to  go  for  a  walk 
with  him." 

Anna  glanced  at  the  clock.  "I'll  go  down  presently." 
She  waited  and  looked  again  at  Sophy  Viner,  whose 
troubled  eyes  seemed  to  commit  their  message  to  her. 
"You'd  better  tell  Owen,  my  dear." 

Owen's  look  also  turned  on  the  girl.  "Tell  me  what? 
Why,  what's  happened?" 

[239] 


THE     REEF 

Anna  summoned  a  laugh  to  ease  the  vague  tension  of 
the  moment.  "Don't  look  so  startled!  Nothing,  except 
that  Sophy  proposes  to  desert  us  for  a  while  for  the  Far- 
lows." 

Owen's  brow  cleared.  "I  was  afraid  she'd  run  off  be 
fore  long."  He  glanced  at  Anna.  "Do  please  keep  her 
here  as  long  as  you  can !" 

Sophy  intervened:  "Mrs.  Leath's  already  given  me 
leave  to  go." 

"Already?    To  go  when?" 

"Today,"  said  Sophy  in  a  low  tone,  her  eyes  on  Anna's. 

"Today  ?  Why  on  earth  should  you  go  today  ?"  Owen 
dropped  back  a  step  or  two,  flushing  and  paling  under  his 
bewildered  frown.  His  eyes  seemed  to  search  the  girl 
more  closely.  "Something's  happened."  He  too  looked 
at  his  step-mother.  "I  suppose  she  must  have  told  you 
what  it  is?" 

Anna  was  struck  by  the  suddenness  and  vehemence  of 
his  appeal.  It  was  as  though  some  smouldering  appre 
hension  had  lain  close  under  the  surface  of  his  security. 

"She's  told  me  nothing  except  that  she  wishes  to  be 
with  her  friends.  It's  quite  natural  that  she  should  want 
to  go  to  them." 

Owen  visibly  controlled  himself.  "Of  course — quite 
natural."  He  spoke  to  Sophy.  "But  why  didn't  you  tell 
me  so?  Why  did  you  come  first  to  my  step-mother?" 

Anna  intervened  with  her  calm  smile.  "That  seems  to 
me  quite  natural,  too.  Sophy  was  considerate  enough  to 
tell  me  first  because  of  Effie." 

He  weighed  it.  "Very  well,  then :  that's  quite  natural, 
as  you  say.  And  of  course  she  must  do  exactly  as  she 

[240] 


THE     REEF 

pleases."  He  still  kept  his  eyes  on  the  girl.  "To 
morrow,"  he  abruptly  announced,  "I  shall  go  up  to  Paris 
to  see  you." 

"Oh,  no — no !"  she  protested. 

Owen  turned  back  to  Anna.  "Now  do  you  say  that 
nothing's  happened?" 

Under  the  influence  of  his  agitation  Anna  felt  a 
vague  tightening  of  the  heart.  She  seemed  to  herself 
like  some  one  in  a  dark  room  about  whom  unseen  pres 
ences  are  groping. 

"If  it's  anything  that  Sophy  wishes  to  tell  you,  no  doubt 
she'll  do  so.  I'm  going  down  now,  and  I'll  leave  you  here 
to  talk  it  over  by  yourselves." 

As  she  moved  to  the  door  the  girl  caught  up  with  her. 
"But  there's  nothing  to  tell :  why  should  there  be  ?  I've 
explained  that  I  simply  want  to  be  quiet."  Her  look 
seemed  to  detain  Mrs.  Leath. 

Owen  broke  in :  "Is  that  why  I  mayn't  go  up  tomor 
row  ?" 

"Not  tomorrow !" 

"Then  when  may  I?" 

"Later  ...  in  a  little  while  ...  a  few  days  .  .    .  ' 

"In  how  many  days?" 

"Owen !"  his  step-mother  interposed ;  but  he  seemed 
no  longer  aware  of  her.  "If  you  go  away  today,  the 
day  that  our  engagement's  made  known,  it's  only  fair," 
he  persisted,  "that  you  should  tell  me  when  I  am  to 
see  you." 

Sophy's  eyes  wavered  between  the  two  and  dropped 
down  wearily.  "It's  you  who  are  not  fair — when  I've  said 
I  wanted  to  be  quiet." 


THE     REEF 

"But  why  should  my  coming  disturb  you?  I'm  not 
asking  now  to  come  tomorrow.  I  only  ask  you  not  to 
leave  without  telling  me  when  I'm  to  see  you." 

"Owen,  I  don't  understand  you!"  his  step-mother  ex 
claimed. 

"You  don't  understand  my  asking  for  some  explana 
tion,  some  assurance,  when  I'm  left  in  this  way,  without 
a  word,  without  a  sign  ?  All  I  ask  her  to  tell  me  is  when 
she'll  see  me." 

Anna  turned  back  to  Sophy  Viner,  who  stood  straight 
and  tremulous  between  the  two. 

"After  all,  my  dear,  he's  not  unreasonable!" 

"I'll  write— I'll  write,"  the  girl  repeated. 

"What  will  you  write?"  he  pressed  her  vehemently. 

"Owen,"  Anna  exclaimed,  "you  are  unreasonable !" 

He  turned  from  Sophy  to  his  step-mother.  "I  only 
want  her  to  say  what  she  means:  that  she's  going  to 
write  to  break  off  our  engagement.  Isn't  that  what 
you're  going  away  for  ?" 

Anna  felt  the  contagion  of  his  excitement.  She  looked 
at  Sophy,  who  stood  motionless,  her  lips  set,  her  whole 
face  drawn  to  a  silent  fixity  of  resistance. 

"You  ought  to  speak,  my  dear — you  ought  to  answer 
him." 

"I  only  ask  him  to  wait " 

"Yes,"  Owen,  broke  in,  "and  you  won't  say  how 
long!" 

Both  instinctively  addressed  themselves  to  Anna,  who 
stood,  nearly  as  shaken  as  themselves,  between  the  double 
shock  of  their  struggle.  She  looked  again  from  Sophy's 
inscrutable  eyes  to  Owen's  stormy  features;  then  she 


THE     REEF 

said:  "What  can  I  do,  when  there's  clearly  something 
between  you  that  I  don't  know  about?" 

"Oh,  if  it  were  between  us !  Can't  you  see  it's  outside 
of  us — outside  of  her,  dragging  at  her,  dragging  her  away 
from  me?"  Owen  wheeled  round  again  upon  his  step 
mother. 

Anna  turned  from  him  to  the  girl.  "Is  it  true  that  you 
want  to  break  your  engagement?  If  you  do,  you  ought 
to  tell  him  now." 

Owen  burst  into  a  laugh.  "She  doesn't  dare  to — 
she's  afraid  I'll  guess  the  reason !" 

A  faint  sound  escaped  from  Sophy's  lips,  but  she  kept 
them  close  on  whatever  answer  she  had  ready. 

"If  she  doesn't  wish  to  marry  you,  why  should  she  be 
afraid  to  have  you  know  the  reason  ?" 

"She's  afraid  to  have  you  know  it — not  me!" 

"To  have  me  know  it  ?" 

He  laughed  again,  and  Anna,  at  his  laugh,  felt  a  sud 
den  rush  of  indignation. 

"Owen,  you  must  explain  what  you  mean !" 

He  looked  at  her  hard  before  answering ;  then :  "Ask 
Darrow !"  he  said. 

"Owen — Owen !"  Sophy  Viner  murmured. 


XXIV 


ANNA  stood  looking  from  one  to  the  other.    It  had 
become  apparent  to  her  in  a  flash  that  Owen's 
retort,  though  it  startled  'Sophy,  did  not  take  her  by  sur- 

[243] 


THE     REEF 

prise;  and  the  discovery  shot  its  light  along  dark  dis 
tances  of  fear. 

The  immediate  inference  was  that  Owen  had  guessed 
the  reason  of  Barrow's  disapproval  of  his  marriage,  or 
that,  at  least,  he  suspected  Sophy  Viner  of  knowing  and 
dreading  it.  This  confirmation  of  her  own  obscure 
doubt  sent  a  tremor  of  alarm  through  Anna.  For  a  mo 
ment  she  felt  like  exclaiming :  "All  this  is  really  no  busi 
ness  of  mine,  and  I  refuse  to  have  you  mix  me  up  in 
it — "  but  her  secret  fear  held  her  fast. 

Sophy  Viner  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I  should  like  to  go  now,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
taking  a  few  steps  toward  the  door. 

Her  tone  woke  Anna  to  the  sense  of  her  own  share  in 
the  situation.  "I  quite  agree  with  you,  my  dear,  that  it's 
useless  to  carry  on  this  discussion.  But  since  Mr.  Dar- 
row's  name  has  been  brought  into  it,  for  reasons  which 
I  fail  to  guess,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  you're  both  mis 
taken  if  you  think  he's  not  in  sympathy  with  your  mar 
riage.  If  that's  what  Owen  means  to  imply,  the  idea's 
a  complete  delusion." 

She  spoke  the  words  deliberately  and  incisively,  as  if 
hoping  that  the  sound  of  their  utterance  would  stifle  the 
whisper  in  her  bosom. 

Sophy's  only  answer  was  a  vague  murmur,  and  a  move 
ment  that  brought  her  nearer  to  the  door;  but  before 
she  could  reach  it  Owen  had  placed  himself  in  her  way. 

"I  don't  mean  to  imply  what  you  think,"  he  said,  ad 
dressing  his  step-mother  but  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  girl. 
"I  don't  say  Darrow  doesn't  like  our  marriage ;  I  say  it's 
Sophy  who's  hated  it  since  Darrow's  been  here !" 

[244] 


THE    REEF 

He  brought  out  the  charge  in  a  tone  of  forced  com 
posure,  but  his  lips  were  white  and  he  grasped  the  door 
knob  to  hide  the  tremor  of  his  hand. 

Anna's  anger  surged  up  with  her  fears.  "You're  ab 
surd,  Owen!  I  don't  know  why  I  listen  to  you.  Why 
should  Sophy  dislike  Mr.  Darrow,  and  if  she  does,  why 
should  that  have  anything  to  do  with  her  wishing  to 
break  her  engagement?" 

"I  don't  say  she  dislikes  him!  I  don't  say  she  likes 
him ;  I  don't  know  what  it  is  they  say  to  each  other  when 
they're  shut  up  together  alone." 

"Shut  up  together  alone  ?"  Anna  stared.  Owen  seemed 
like  a  man  in  delirium;  such  an  exhibition  was  degrad 
ing  to  them  all.  But  he  pushed  on  without  seeing  her 
look. 

"Yes — the  first  evening  she  came,  in  the  study ;  the  next 
morning,  early,  in  the  park;  yesterday,  again,  in  thei 
spring-house,  when  you  were  at  the  lodge  with  the  doc 
tor  ...  I  don't  know  what  they  say  to  each  other,  but 
they've  taken  every  chance  they  could  to  say  it  ...  and 
to  say  it  when  they  thought  that  no  one  saw  them." 

Anna  longed  to  silence  him,  but  no  words  came  to 
her.  It  was  as  though  all  her  confused  apprehensions 
had  suddenly  taken  definite  shape.  There  was  "some 
thing" — yes,  there  was  "something"  .  .  .  Darrow's  reti 
cences  and  evasions  had  been  more  than  a  figment  of 
her  doubts. 

The  next  instant  brought  a  recoil  of  pride.  She  turned 
indignantly  on  her  step-son. 

"I  don't  half  understand  what  you've  been  saying ;  but 
what  you  seem  to  hint  is  so  preposterous,  and  so  insulting 

[  245 1 


THE     REEF 

both  to  Sophy  and  to  me,  that  I  see  no  reason  why  we 
should  listen  to  you  any  longer." 

Though  her  tone  steadied  Owen,  she  perceived  at  once 
that  it  would  not  deflect  him  from  his  purpose.  He  spoke 
less  vehemently,  but  with  all  the  more  precision. 

"How  can  it  be  preposterous,  since  it's  true?  Or  in 
sulting,  since  I  don't  know,  any  more  than  you,  the  mean 
ing  of  what  I've  been  seeing?  If  you'll  be  patient  with 
me  I'll  try  to  put  it  quietly.  What  I  mean  is  that  Sophy 
has  completely  changed  since  she  met  Darrow  here,  and 
that,  having  noticed  the  change,  I'm  hardly  to  blame  for 
having  tried  to  find  out  its  cause." 

Anna  made  an  effort  to  answer  him  with  the  same 
composure.  "You're  to  blame,  at  any  rate,  for  so  reck 
lessly  assuming  that  you  have  found  it  out.  You  seem  to 
forget  that,  till  they  met  here,  Sophy  and  Mr.  Darrow 
hardly  knew  each  other." 

"If  so,  it's  all  the  stranger  that  they've  been  so  often 
closeted  together !" 

"Owen,  Owen — "  the  girl  sighed  out. 

He  turned  his  haggard  face  to  her.  "Can  I  help  it,  if 
I've  seen  and  known  what  I  wasn't  meant  to  ?  For  God's 
sake  give  me  a  reason — any  reason  I  can  decently  mak^ 
out  with !  Is  it  my  fault  if,  the  day  after  you  arrived, 
when  I  came  back  late  through  the  garden,  the  curtains 
of  the  study  hadn't  been  drawn,  and  I  saw  you  there 
alone  with  Darrow  ?" 

Anna  laughed  impatiently.  "Really,  Owen,  if  you 
make  it  a  grievance  that  two  people  who  are  staying  in 
the  same  house  should  be  seen  talking  together !" 

"They  were  not  talking.    That's  the  point " 

[246] 


THE     REEF 

"Not  talking?  How  do  you  know?  You  could  hardly 
hear  them  from  the  garden !" 

"No ;  but  I  could  see.  He  was  sitting  at  my  desk,  with 
his  face  in  his  hands.  She  was  standing  in  the  window, 
looking  away  from  him  .  .  .  " 

He  waited,  as  if  for  Sophy  Viner's  answer;  but  still 
she  neither  stirred  nor  spoke. 

"That  was  the  first  time,"  he  went  on ;  "and  the  second 
was  the  next  morning  in  the  park.  It  was  natural 
enough,  their  meeting  there.  Sophy  had  gone  out  with 
Effie,  and  Effie  ran  back  to  look  for  me.  She  told  me 
she'd  left  Sophy  and  Darrow  in  the  path  that  leads  to 
the  river,  and  presently  we  saw  them  ahead  of  us.  They 
didn't  see  us  at  first,  because  they  were  standing  looking 
at  each  other;  and  this  time  they  were  not  speaking 
either.  We  came  up  close  before  they  heard  us,  and  all 
that  time  they  never  spoke,  or  stopped  looking  at  each 
other.  After  that  I  began  to  wonder;  and  so  I  watched 
them." 

"Oh,  Owen!" 

"Oh,  I  only  had  to  wait.  Yesterday,  when  I  motored 
you  and  the  doctor  back  from  the  lodge,  I  saw  Sophy 
coming  out  of  the  spring-house.  I  supposed  she'd  taken 
shelter  from  the  rain,  and  when  you  got  out  of  the 
motor  I  strolled  back  down  the  avenue  to  meet  her.  But 
she'd  disappeared — she  must  have  taken  a  short  cut 
and  come  into  the  house  by  the  side  door.  I  don't  know 
why  I  went  on  to  the  spring-house;  I  suppose  it  was 
what  you'd  call  spying.  I  went  up  the  steps  and  found 
the  room  empty;  but  two  chairs  had  been  moved  out 
from  the  wall  and  were  standing  near  the  table ;  and  one 

[247] 


THE     REEF 

of  the  Chinese  screens  that  lie  on  it  had  dropped  to  the 
floor." 

Anna  sounded  a  faint  note  of  irony.  "Really  ?  Sophy'd 
gone  there  for  shelter,  and  she  dropped  a  screen  and 
moved  a  chair?" 

"I  said  two  chairs " 

"Two?  What  damning  evidence — of  I  don't  know 
what !" 

"Simply  of  the  fact  that  Darrow'd  been  there  with  her. 
As  I  looked  out  of  the  window  I  saw  him  close  by,  walk 
ing  away.  He  must  have  turned  the  corner  of  the  spring- 
house  just  as  I  got  to  the  door." 

There  was  another  silence,  during  which  Anna  paused, 
not  only  to  collect  her  own  words  but  to  wait  for  Sophy 
Viner's ;  then,  as  the  girl  made  no  sign,  she  turned  to  her. 

"I've  absolutely  nothing  to  say  to  all  this;  but  per 
haps  you'd  like  me  to  wait  and  hear  your  answer?" 

Sophy  raised  her  head  with  a  quick  flash  of  colour. 
"I've  no  answer  either — except  that  Owen  must  be  mad." 

In  the  interval  since  she  had  last  spoken  she  seemed 
to  have  regained  her  self-control,  and  her  voice  rang 
clear,  with  a  cold  edge  of  anger. 

Anna  looked  at  her  step-son.  He  had  grown  ex 
tremely  pale,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the  door  with  a  dis 
couraged  gesture.  "That's  all  then?  You  won't  give 
me  any  reason?" 

"I  didn't  suppose  it  was  necessary  to  give  you  or  any 
one  else  a  reason  for  talking  with  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Leath's 
under  Mrs.  Leath's  own  roof." 

Owen  hardly  seemed  to  feel  the  retort:  he  kept  his 
dogged  stare  on  her  face. 

[248] 


THE     REEF 

"I  won't  ask  for  one,  then.  I'll  only  ask  you  to  give 
me  your  assurance  that  your  talks  with  Darrow  have 
had  nothing  to  do  with  your  suddenly  deciding  to  leave 
Givre." 

She  hesitated,  not  so  much  with  the  air  of  weighing 
her  answer  as  of  questioning  his  right  to  exact  any.  "I 
give  you  my  assurance;  and  now  I  should  like  to  go," 
she  said. 

As  she  turned  away,  Anna  intervened.  "My  dear,  I 
think  you  ought  to  speak." 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  with  a  faint  laugh.  "To  him 
— or  to  you?" 

"To  him." 

She  stiffened.    "I've  said  all  there  is  to  say." 

Anna  drew  back,  her  eyes  on  her  step-son.  He  had 
left  the  threshold  and  was  advancing  toward  Sophy  Viner 
with  a  motion  of  desperate  appeal ;  but  as  he  did  so  there 
was  a  knock  on  the  door.  A  moment's  silence  fell  on  the 
three ;  then  Anna  said :  "Come  in !" 

Darrow  came  into  the  room.  Seeing  the  three  together, 
he  looked  rapidly  from  one  to  the  other;  then  he  turned 
to  Anna  with  a  smile. 

"I  came  up  to  see  if  you  were  ready;  6ut  please  send 
me  off  if  I'm  not  wanted." 

His  look,  his  voice,  the  simple  sense  of  his  presence, 
restored  Anna's  shaken  balance.  By  Owen's  side  he 
looked  so  strong,  so  urbane,  so  experienced,  that  the 
lad's  passionate  charges  dwindled  to  mere  boyish  vapour- 
ings.  A  moment  ago  she  had  dreaded  Barrow's  coming; 
now  she  was  glad  that  he  was  there. 

She  turned  to  him  with  sudden  decision.     "Come  in, 

[249] 


THE     REEF 

please;  I  want  you  to  hear  what  Owen  has  been 
saying." 

She  caught  a  murmur  from  Sophy  Viner,  but  disre 
garded  it.  An  illuminating  impulse  urged  her  on.  She, 
habitually  so  aware  of  her  own  lack  of  penetration,  her 
small  skill  in  reading  hidden  motives  and  detecting  secret 
signals,  now  felt  herself  mysteriously  inspired.  She  ad 
dressed  herself  to  Sophy  Viner.  "It's  much  better  for 
you  both  that  this  absurd  question  should  be  cleared  up 
now."  Then,  turning  to  Darrow,  she  continued:  "For 
some  reason  that  I  don't  pretend  to  guess,  Owen  has 
taken  it  into  his  head  that  you've  influenced  Miss  Viner 
to  break  her  engagement." 

She  spoke  slowly  and  deliberately,  because  she  wished 
to  give  time  and  to  gain  it;  time  for  Darrow  and  Sophy 
to  receive  the  full  impact  of  what  she  was  saying,  and 
time  to  observe  its  full  effect  on  them.  She  had  said  to 
herself:  "If  there's  nothing  between  them,  they'll  look 
at  each  other ;  if  there  is  something,  they  won't ;"  and  as 
she  ceased  to  speak  she  felt  as  if  all  her  life  were  in  her 
eyes. 

Sophy,  after  a  start  of  protest,  remained  motionless, 
her  gaze  on  the  ground.  Darrow,  his  face  grown  grave, 
glanced  slowly  from  Owen  Leath  to  Anna.  With  his 
eyes  on  the  latter  he  asked :  "Has  Miss  Viner  broken  her 
engagement  ?" 

A  moment's  silence  followed  his  question ;  then  the  girl 
looked  up  and  said :  "Yes !" 

Owen,  as  she  spoke,  uttered  a  smothered  exclamation 
and  walked  out  of  the  room.  She  continued  to  stand 
in  the  same  place,  without  appearing  to  notice  his  de- 

[250] 


THE     REEF 

parture,  and  without  vouchsafing  an  additional  word  of 
explanation;  then,  before  Anna  could  find  a  cry  to  de 
tain  her,  she  too  turned  and  went  out. 

"For  God's  sake,  what's  happened?"  Darrow  asked; 
but  Anna,  with  a  drop  of  the  heart,  was  saying  to  her 
self  that  he  and  Sophy  Viner  had  not  looked  at  each 
other. 


XXV 

ANNA  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her 
eyes  on  the  door.  Darrow's  questioning  gaze 
was  still  on  her,  and  she  said  to  herself  with 
a  quick-drawn  breath:  "If  only  he  doesn't  come  near 
me!" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  suddenly  endowed 
with  the  fatal  gift  of  reading  the  secret  sense  of  every 
seemingly  spontaneous  look  and  movement,  and  that  in 
his  least  gesture  of  affection  she  would  detect  a  cold  de 
sign. 

For  a  moment  longer  he  continued  to  look  at  her 
enquiringly ;  then  he  turned  away  and  took  up  his  habitual 
stand  by  the  mantel-piece.  She  drew  a  deep  breath  of 
relief. 

"Won't  you  please  explain?"  he  said. 

"I  can't  explain :  I  don't  know.  I  didn't  even  know — 
till  she  told  you — that  she  really  meant  to  break  her 
engagement.  All  I  know  is  that  she  came  to  me  just 
now  and  said  she  wished  to  leave  Givre  today ;  and  that 
Owen,  when  he  heard  of  it — for  she  hadn't  told  him — 

17  21 


THE     REEF 

at  once  accused  her  of  going  away  with  the  secret  in 
tention  of  throwing  him  over." 

"And  you  think  it's  a  definite  break  ?"  She  perceived, 
as  she  spoke,  that  his  brow  had  cleared. 

"How  should  I  know?    Perhaps  you  can  tell  me." 

"I?"  She  fancied  his  face  clouded  again,  but  he  did 
not  move  from  his  tranquil  attitude. 

"As  I  told  you,"  she  went  on,  "Owen  has  worked  him 
self  up  to  imagining  that  for  some  mysterious  reason 
you've  influenced  Sophy  against  him." 

Darrow  still  visibly  wondered.  "It  must  indeed  be  a 
mysterious  reason !  He  knows  how  slightly  I  know  Miss 
Viner.  Why  should  he  imagine  anything  so  wildly  im 
probable?" 

"I  don't  know  that  either." 

"But  he  must  have  hinted  at  some  reason." 

"No:  he  admits  he  doesn't  know  your  reason.  He 
simply  says  that  Sophy's  manner  to  him  has  changed 
since  she  came  back  to  Givre  and  that  he's  seen  you  to 
gether  several  times — in  the  park,  the  spring-house,  I 
don't  know  where — talking  alone  in  a  way  that  seemed 
confidential — almost  secret;  and  he  draws  the  prepos 
terous  conclusion  that  you've  used  your  influence  to  turn 
her  against  him." 

"My  influence?    What  kind  of  influence?" 

"He  doesn't  say." 

Darrow  again  seemed  to  turn  over  the  facts  she  gave 
him.  His  face  remained  grave,  but  without  the  least 
trace  of  discomposure.  "And  what  does  Miss  ,Viner 
say?" 

"She  says  it's  perfectly  natural  that  she  should  occa- 
[252] 


THE     REEF 

sionally  talk  to  my  friends  when  she's  under  my  roof — 
and  refuses  to  give  him  any  other  explanation." 

"That  at  least  is  perfectly  natural !" 

Anna  felt  her  cheeks  flush  as  she  answered:  "Yes — 
but  there  is  something " 

"Something ?" 

"Some  reason  for  her  sudden  decision  to  break  her 
engagement.  I  can  understand  Owen's  feeling,  sorry 
as  I  am  for  his  way  of  showing  it.  The  girl  owes 
him  some  sort  of  explanation,  and  as  long  as  she  refuses 
to  give  it  his  imagination  is  sure  to  run  wild." 

"She  would  have  given  it,  no  doubt,  if  he'd  asked  it  in 
a  different  tone." 

"I  don't  defend  Owen's  tone — but  she  knew  what  it 
was  before  she  accepted  him.  She  knows  he's  excitable 
and  undisciplined." 

"Well,  she's  been  disciplining  him  a  little — probably 
the  best  thing  that  could  happen.  Why  not  let  the  matter 
rest  there?" 

"Leave  Owen  with  the  idea  that  you  have  been  the 
cause  of  the  break?" 

He  met  the  question  with  his  easy  smile.  "Oh,  as  to 
that — leave  him  with  any  idea  of  me  he  chooses !  But 
leave  him,  at  any  rate,  free." 

"Free?"  she  echoed  in  surprise. 

"Simply  let  things  be.  You've  surely  done  all  you 
could  for  him  and  Miss  Viner.  If  they  don't  hit  it  off 
it's  their  own  affair.  What  possible  motive  can  you  have 
for  trying  to  interfere  now?" 

Her  gaze  widened  to  a  deeper  wonder.  "Why — nat 
urally,  what  he  says  of  you !" 

[253] 


THE     REEF 

"I  don't  care  a  straw  what  he  says  of  me!  In  such 
a  situation  a  boy  in  love  will  snatch  at  the  most  far 
fetched  reason  rather  than  face  the  mortifying  fact  that 
the  lady  may  simply  be  tired  of  him." 

"You  don't  quite  understand  Owen.  Things  go  deep 
with  him,  and  last  long.  It  took  him  a  long  time  to  re 
cover  from  his  other  unlucky  love  affair.  He's  ro 
mantic  and  extravagant :  he  can't  live  on  the  interest  of 
his  feelings.  He  worships  Sophy  and  she  seemed  to  be 
fond  of  him.  If  she's  changed  it's  been  very  sudden. 
And  if  they  part  like  this,  angrily  and  inarticulately,  it 
will  hurt  him  horribly — hurt  his  very  soul.  But  that,  as 
you  say,  is  between  the  two.  What  concerns  me  is  his 
associating  you  with  their  quarrel.  Owen's  like  my  own 
son — if  you'd  seen  him  when  I  first  came  here  you'd  know 
why.  We  were  like  two  prisoners  who  talk  to  each  other 
by  tapping  on  the  wall.  He's  never  forgotten  it,  nor  I. 
Whether  he  breaks  with  Sophy,  or  whether  they  make 
it  up,  I  can't  let  him  think  you  had  anything  to  do 
with  it.'5 

She  raised  her  eyes  entreatingly  to  Darrow's,  and  read 
in  them  the  forbearance  of  the  man  resigned  to  the  dis 
cussion  of  non-existent  problems. 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  want  me  to,"  he  said;  "but  I 
don't  yet  know  what  it  is." 

His  smile  seemed  to  charge  her  with  inconsequence, 
and  the  prick  to  her  pride  made  her  continue:  ''After 
all,  it's  not  so  unnatural  that  Owen,  knowing  you  and 
Sophy  to  be  almost  strangers,  should  wonder  what  you 
were  saying  to  each  other  when  he  saw  you  talking 
together." 

[254] 


THE     REEF 

She  felt  a  warning  tremor  as  she  spoke,  as  though  some 
instinct  deeper  than  reason  surged  up  in  defense  of  its 
treasure.  But  Darrow's  face  was  unstirred  save  by  the 
flit  of  his  half-amused  smile. 

"Well,  my  dear — and  couldn't  you  have  told  him?" 

"I  ?"  she  faltered  out  through  her  blush. 

"You  seem  to  forget,  one  and  all  of  you,  the  position 
you  put  me  in  when  I  came  down  here :  your  appeal  to  me 
to  see  Owen  through,  your  assurance  to  him  that  I  would, 
Madame  de  Chantelle's  attempt  to  win  me  over ;  and  most 
of  all,  my  own  sense  of  the  fact  you've  just  recalled 
to  me :  the  importance,  for  both  of  us,  that  Owen  should 
like  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  first  thing  to  do  was 
to  get  as  much  light  as  I  could  on  the  whole  situation; 
and  the  obvious  way  of  doing  it  was  to  try  to  know  Miss 
Viner  better.  Of  course  I've  talked  with  her  alone — 
I've  talked  with  her  as  often  as  I  could.  I've  tried  my 
best  to  find  out  if  you  were  right  in  encouraging  Owen 
to  marry  her." 

She  listened  with  a  growing  sense  of  reassurance, 
struggling  to  separate  the  abstract  sense  of  his  words 
from  the  persuasion  in  which  his  eyes  and  voice  en 
veloped  them. 

"I  see — I  do  see,"  she  murmured. 

"You  must  see,  also,  that  I  could  hardly  say  this  to 
Owen  without  offending  him  still  more,  and  perhaps 
increasing  the  breach  between  Miss  Viner  and  himself. 
What  sort  of  figure  should  I  cut  if  I  told  him  I'd  been 
trying  to  find  out  if  he'd  made  a  proper  choice?  In 
any  case,  it's  none  of  my  business  to  offer  an  explana 
tion  of  what  she  justly  says  doesn't  need  one.  If  she  de- 

[255] 


THE     REEF 

clines  to  speak,  it's  obviously  on  the  ground  that  Owen's 

insinuations  are  absurd;  and  that  surely  pledges  me  to 

silence." 

"Yes,  yes!  I  see,"  Anna  repeated.    "But  I  don't  want 

you  to  explain  anything  to  Owen." 

"You  haven't  yet  told  me  what  you  do  want." 

She  hesitated,  conscious  of  the  difficulty  of  justifying 

her  request ;  then :  "I  want  you  to  speak  to  Sophy,"  she 

said. 

Darrow  broke  into  an  incredulous  laugh.     "Consid 
ering  what  my  previous  attempts  have  resulted  in !" 

She  raised  her  eyes  quickly.     "They  haven't,  at  least, 

resulted  in  your  liking  her  less,  in  your  thinking  less 

well  of  her  than  you've  told  me?" 

She  fancied  he  frowned  a  little.    "I  wonder  why  you 

go  back  to  that  ?" 

"I  want  to  be  sure — I  owe  it  to  Owen.    Won't  you  tell 

me  the  exact  impression  she's  produced  on  you  ?" 
"I  have  told  you — I  like  Miss  Viner." 
"Do  you  still  believe  she's  in  love  with  Owen?" 
"There  was  nothing  in  our  short  talks  to  throw  any 

particular  light  on  that." 

"You  still  believe,  though,  that  there's  no  reason  why 

he  shouldn't  marry  her  ?" 

Again  he  betrayed  a  restrained  impatience.    "How  can 

I  answer  that  without  knowing  her  reasons  for  breaking 

with  him?" 

"That's  just  what  I  want  you  to  find  out  from  her." 
"And  why  in  the  world  should  she  tell  me?" 
"Because,  whatever  grievance  she  has  against  Owen, 

she  can  certainly  have  none  against  me.    She  can't  want 

[256] 


THE     REEF 

to  have  Owen  connect  me  in  his  mind  with  this  wretched 
quarrel;  and  she  must  see  that  he  will  until  he's  con 
vinced  you've  had  no  share  in  it." 

Darrow's  elbow  dropped  from  the  mantel-piece  and  he 
took  a  restless  step  or  two  across  the  room.  Then  he 
halted  before  her. 

"Why  can't  you  tell  her  this  yourself?" 

"Don't  you  see?" 

He  eyed  her  intently,  and  she  pressed  on:  "You  must 
have  guessed  that  Owen's  jealous  of  you." 

"Jealous  of  me  ?"  The  blood  flew  up  under  his  brown 
skin. 

"Blind  with  it — what  else  would  drive  him  to  this 
folly?  And  I  can't  have  her  think  me  jealous  too!  I've 
said  all  I  could,  short  of  making  her  think  so ;  and  she's 
refused  a  word  more  to  either  of  us.  Our  only  chance 
now  is  that  she  should  listen  to  you — that  you  should 
make  her  see  the  harm  her  silence  may  do." 

Darrow  uttered  a  protesting  exclamation.  "It's  all  too 
preposterous — what  you  suggest!  I  can't,  at  any  rate, 
appeal  to  her  on  such  a  ground  as  that !" 

Anna  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Appeal  to  her  on  the 
ground  that  I'm  almost  Owen's  mother,  and  that  any 
estrangement  between  you  and  him  would  kill  me.  She 
knows  what  he  is — she'll  understand.  Tell  her  to  say 
anything,  do  anything,  she  wishes;  but  not  to  go  away 
without  speaking,  not  to  leave  that  between  us  when  she 
goes !" 

She  drew  back  a  step  and  lifted  her  face  to  his,  trying 
to  look  into  his  eyes  more  deeply  than  she  had  ever 
looked ;  but  before  she  could  discern  what  they  expressed 

1 257  ] 


THE     REEF 

he  had  taken  hold  of  her  hands  and  bent  his  head  to  kiss 
them. 

"You'll  see  her  ?  You'll  see  her  ?"  she  entreated ;  and 
he  answered:  "I'll  do  anything  in  the  world  you  want 
me  to." 

XXVI 

D  ARROW  waited  alone  in  the  sitting-room. 
No  place  could  have  been  more  distasteful  as  the 
scene  of  the  talk  that  lay  before  him ;  but  he  had  acceded 
to  Anna's  suggestion  that  it  would  seem  more  natural  for 
her  to  summon  Sophy  Viner  than  for  him  to  go  in  search 
of  her.  As  his  troubled  pacings  carried  him  back  and 
forth  a  relentless  hand  seemed  to  be  tearing  away  all  the 
tender  fibres  of  association  that  bound  him  to  the  peace 
ful  room.  Here,  in  this  very  place,  he  had  drunk  his 
deepest  draughts  of  happiness,  had  had  his  lips  at  the 
fountain-head  of  its  overflowing  rivers;  but  now  that 
source  was  poisoned  and  he  would  taste  no  more  of  an 
untainted  cup. 

For  a  moment  he  felt  an  actual  physical  anguish ;  then 
his  nerves  hardened  for  the  coming  struggle.  He  had 
no  notion  of  what  awaited  him;  but  after  the  first  in 
stinctive  recoil  he  had  seen  in  a  flash  the  urgent  need  of 
another  word  with  Sophy  Viner.  He  had  been  insincere 
in  letting  Anna  think  that  he  had  consented  to  speak 
because  she  asked  it.  In  reality  he  had  been  feverishly 
casting  about  for  the  pretext  she  had  given  him;  and 
for  some  reason  this  trivial  hypocrisy  weighed  on  him 
more  than  all  his  heavy  burden  of  deceit. 

[258] 


THE     REEF 

At  length  he  heard  a  step  behind  him  and  Sophy  Viner 
entered.  When  she  saw  him  she  paused  on  the  threshold 
and  half  drew  back. 

"I  was  told  that  Mrs.  Leath  had  sent  for  me." 

"Mrs.  Leath  did  send  for  you.  She'll  be  here  pres 
ently;  but  I  asked  her  to  let  me  see  you  first." 

He  spoke  very  gently,  and  there  was  no  insincerity  in 
his  gentleness.  He  was  profoundly  moved  by  the  change 
in  the  girl's  appearance.  At  sight  of  him  she  had  forced 
a  smile;  but  it  lit  up  her  wretchedness  like  a  candle- 
flame  held  to  a  dead  face. 

She  made  no  reply,  and  Darrow  went  on :  "You  must 
understand  my  wanting  to  speak  to  you,  after  what  I 
was  told  just  now." 

She  interposed,  with  a  gesture  of  protest:  'I'm  not 
responsible  for  Owen's  ravings !" 

"Of  course ".  He  broke  off  and  they  stood  facing 

each  other.  She  lifted  a  hand  and  pushed  back  her  loose 
lock  with  the  gesture  that  was  burnt  into  his  memory; 
then  she  looked  about  her  and  dropped  into  the  nearest 
chair. 

"Well,  you've  got  what  you  wanted,"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  what  I  wanted?" 

"My  engagement's  broken — you  heard  me  say  so." 

"Why  do  you  say  that's  what  I  wanted  ?  All  I  wished, 
from  the  beginning,  was  to  advise  you,  to  help  you  as 
best  I  could " 

"That's  what  youVe  done,"  she  rejoined.  "You've 
convinced  me  that  it's  best  I  shouldn't  marry  him." 

Darrow  broke  into  a  despairing  laugh.  "At  the  very 
moment  when  you'd  convinced  me  to  the  contrary !" 

[259] 


THE     REEF 

"Had  I?"  Her  smile  flickered  up.  "Well,  I  really  be 
lieved  it  till  you  showed  me  ...  warned  rne  .  .  .  " 

"Warned  you?" 

"That  I'd  be  miserable  if  I  married  a  man  I  didn't 
love." 

"Don't  you  love  him?" 

She  made  no  answer,  and  Darrow  started  up  and 
walked  away  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  He  stopped 
before  the  writing-table,  where  his  photograph,  well- 
dressed,  handsome,  self-sufficient — the  portrait  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  confident  of  his  ability  to  deal  adequately 
with  the  most  delicate  situations — offered  its  huge  fatuity 
to  his  gaze.  He  turned  back  to  her.  "It's  rather  hard 
on  Owen,  isn't  it,  that  you  should  have  waited  until 
now  to  tell  him  ?" 

She  reflected  a  moment  before  answering.  "I  told  him 
as  soon  as  I  knew." 

"Knew  that  you  couldn't  marry  him?" 

"Knew  that  I  could  never  live  here  with  him."  She 
looked  about  the  room,  as  though  the  very  walls  must 
speak  for  her. 

For  a  moment  Darrow  continued  to  search  her  face 
perplexedly;  then  their  eyes  met  in  a  long  disastrous 
gaze. 

"Yes "  she  said,  and  stood  up. 

Below  the  window  they  heard  Effie  whistling  for  her 
dogs,  and  then,  from  the  terrace,  her  mother  calling  her. 

"There — that  for  instance,"  Sophy  Viner  said. 

Darrow  broke  out :    "It's  I  who  ought  to  go !" 

She  kept  her  small  pale  smile.  "What  good  would 
that  do  any  of  us — now?" 

[260] 


THE     REEF 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  "Good  God !"  he 
groaned.  "How  could  I  tell?" 

"You  couldn't  tell.  We  neither  of  us  could."  She 
seemed  to  turn  the  problem  over  critically.  "After  all, 
it  might  have  been  you  instead  of  me !" 

He  took  another  distracted  turn  about  the  room 
and  coming  back  to  her  sat  down  in  a  chair  at  her 
side.  A  mocking  hand  seemed  to  dash  the  words 
from  his  lips.  There  was  nothing  on  earth  that  he 
could  say  to  her  that  wasn't  foolish  or  cruel  or  con 
temptible  .  .  . 

"My  dear,"  he  began  at  last,  "oughtn't  you,  at  any 
rate,  to  try?" 

Her  gaze  grew  grave.    "Try  to  forget  you  ?" 

He  flushed  to  the  forehead.  "I  meant,  try  to  give 
Owen  more  time;  to  give  him  a  chance.  He's  madly  in 
love  with  you ;  all  the  good  that's  in  him  is  in  your  hands. 
His  step-mother  felt  that  from  the  first.  And  she 
thought — she  believed " 

"She  thought  I  could  make  him  happy.  Would  she 
think  so  now?" 

"Now  .  .  .  ?  I  don't  say  now.  But  later?  Time 
modifies  .  .  .  rubs  out  .  .  .  more  quickly  than  you 
think  ...  Go  away,  but  let  him  hope  .  .  .  I'm  going 
too — -we're  going — "  he  stumbled  on  the  plural — "in  a 
very  few  weeks :  going  for  a  long  time,  probably.  What 
you're  thinking  of  now  may  never  happen.  We  may  not 
all  be  here  together  again  for  years." 

She  heard  him  out  in  silence,  her  hands  clasped  on  her 
knee,  her  eyes  bent  on  them.  "For  me,"  she  said,  "you'll 
always  be  here." 


THE     REEF 

"Don't  say  that — oh,  don't !  Things  change  .  .  .  peo 
ple  change  .  .  .  You'll  see!" 

"You  don't  understand.  I  don't  want  anything  to 
change.  I  don't  want  to  forget — to  rub  out.  At  first 
I  imagined  I  did;  but  that  was  a  foolish  mistake.  As 
soon  as  I  saw  you  again  I  knew  it  ...  It's  not  being 
here  with  you  that  I'm  afraid  of — in  the  sense  you  think. 
It's  being  here,  or  anywhere,  with  Owen."  She  stood  up 
and  bent  her  tragic  smile  on  him.  "I  want  to  keep  you 
all  to  myself." 

The  only  words  that  came  to  him  were  futile  denuncia 
tions  of  his  folly;  but  the  sense  of  their  futility  checked 
them  on  his  lips.  "Poor  child — you  poor  child!"  he 
heard  himself  vainly  repeating. 

Suddenly  he  felt  the  strong  reaction  of  reality  and  its 
impetus  brought  him  to  his  feet.  "Whatever  happens,  I 
intend  to  go — to  go  for  good,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  want 
you  to  understand  that.  Oh,  don't  be  afraid — I'll  find  a 
reason.  But  it's  perfectly  clear  that  I  must  go." 

She  uttered  a  protesting  cry.  "Go  away  ?  You  ?  Don't 
you  see  that  that  would  tell  everything — drag  everybody 
into  the  horror?" 

He  found  no  answer,  and  her  voice  dropped  back  to 
its  calmer  note.  "What  good  would  your  going  do? 
Do  you  suppose  it  would  change  anything  for  me  ?"  She 
looked  at  him  with  a  musing  wistfulness.  "I  wonder 
what  your  feeling  for  me  was?  It  seems  queer  that 
I've  never  really  known — -I  suppose  we  don't  know  much 
about  that  kind  of  feeling.  Is  it  like  taking  a  drink  when 
you're  thirsty?  ...  I  used  to  feel  as  if  all  of  me  was 
in  the  palm  of  your  hand  .  .  .  " 

[262  ] 


THE     REEF 

He  bowed  his  humbled  head,  but  she  went  on  almost 
exultantly:  "Don't  for  a  minute  think  I'm  sorry!  It 
was  worth  every  penny  it  cost.  My  mistake  was  in 
being  ashamed,  just  at  first,  of  its  having  cost  such  a  lot, 
I  tried  to  carry  it  off  as  a  joke — to  talk  of  it  to  myself 
as  an  'adventure'.  I'd  always  wanted  adventures,  and 
you'd  given  me  one,  and  I  tried  to  take  your  attitude 
about  it,  to  'play  the  game'  and  convince  myself  that  I 
hadn't  risked  any  more  on  it  than  you.  Then,  when  I 
met  you  again,  I  suddenly  saw  that  I  had  risked  more, 
but  that  I'd  won  more,  too — such  worlds !  I'd  been  try 
ing  all  the  while  to  put  everything  I  could  between  us; 
now  I  want  to  sweep  everything  away.  I'd  been  trying 
to  forget  how  you  looked ;  now  I  want  to  remember  you 
always.  I'd  been  trying  not  to  hear  your  voice;  now  I 
never  want  to  hear  any  other.  I've  made  my  choice — 
that's  all :  I've  had  you  and  I  mean  to  keep  you."  Her 
face  was  shining  like  her  eyes.  "To  keep  you  hidden 
away  here,"  she  ended,  and  put  her  hand  upon  her 
breast. 

After  she  had  left  him,  Darrow  continued  to  sit  mo 
tionless,  staring  back  into  their  past.  Hitherto  it  had 
lingered  on  the  edge  of  his  mind  in  a  vague  pink  blur, 
like  one  of  the  little  rose-leaf  clouds  that  a  setting  sun 
drops  from  its  disk.  Now  it  was  a  huge  looming  dark 
ness,  through  which  his  eyes  vainly  strained.  The  whole 
episode  was  still  obscure  to  him,  save  where  here  and 
there,  as  they  talked,  some  phrase  or  gesture  or  intona 
tion  of  the  girl's  had  lit  up  a  little  spot  in  the  night. 

She  had  said:  "I  wonder  what  your  feeling  for  me 
[263] 


THE     REEF 

was?"  and  he  found  himself  wondering  too  .  .  .  He  re 
membered  distinctly  enough  that  he  had  not  meant  the 
perilous  passion — even  in  its  most  transient  form — to 
play  a  part  in  their  relation.  In  that  respect  his  attitude 
had  been  above  reproach.  She  was  an  unusually  original 
and  attractive  creature,  to  whom  he  had  wanted  to  give  a 
few  days  of  harmless  pleasuring,  and  who  was  alert  and 
expert  enough  to  understand  his  intention  and  spare  him 
the  boredom  of  hesitations  and  misinterpretations.  That 
had  been  his  first  impression,  and  her  subsequent  de 
meanour  had  justified  it.  She  had  been,  from  the  out 
set,  just  the  frank  and  easy  comrade  he  had  expected  to 
find  her.  Was  it  he,  then,  who,  in  the  sequel,  had 
grown  impatient  of  the  bounds  he  had  set  himself  ?  Was 
it  his  wounded  vanity  that,  seeking  balm  for  its  hurt, 
yearned  to  dip  deeper  into  the  healing  pool  of  her  com 
passion?  In  his  confused  memory  of  the  situation  he 
seemed  not  to  have  been  guiltless  of  such  yearnings  .  .  . 
Yet  for  the  first  few  days  the  experiment  had  been  per 
fectly  successful.  Her  enjoyment  had  been  unclouded 
and  his  pleasure  in  it  undisturbed.  It  was  very  gradually 
— he  seemed  to  see — that  a  shade  of  lassitude  had  crept 
over  their  intercourse.  Perhaps  it  was  because,  when  her 
light  chatter  about  people  failed,  he  found  she  had  no 
other  fund  to  draw  on,  or  perhaps  simply  because  of 
the  sweetness  of  her  laugh,  or  of  the  charm  of  the  ges 
ture  with  which,  one  day  in  the  woods  of  Marly,  she  had 
tossed  off  her  hat  and  tilted  back  her  head  at  the  call  of  a 
cuckoo ;  or  because,  whenever  he  looked  at  her  unexpect 
edly,  he  found  that  she  was  looking  at  him  and  did  not 
want  him  to  know  it ;  or  perhaps,  in  varying  degrees,  be- 


THE     REEF 

cause  of  all  these  things,  that  there  had  come  a  moment 
when  no  word  seemed  to  fly  high  enough  or  dive  deep 
enough  to  utter  the  sense  of  well-being  each  gave  to  the 
other,  and  the  natural  substitute  for  speech  had  been  a 
kiss. 

The  kiss,  at  all  events,  had  come  at  the  precise  mo 
ment  to  save  their  venture  from  disaster.  They  had 
reached  the  point  when  her  amazing  reminiscences 
had  begun  to  flag,  when  her  future  had  been  exhaus 
tively  discussed,  her  theatrical  prospects  minutely  studied, 
her  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Murrett  retold  with  the  last 
amplification  of  detail,  and  when,  perhaps  conscious  of 
her  exhausted  resources  and  his  dwindling  interest,  she 
had  committed  the  fatal  error  of  saying  that  she  could 
see  he  was  unhappy,  and  entreating  him  to  tell  her 
why  .  .  . 

From  the  brink  of  estranging  confidences,  and  from  the 
risk  of  unfavourable  comparisons,  his  gesture  had 
snatched  her  back  to  safety ;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  kissed 
her  he  felt  that  she  would  never  bore  him  again.  She 
was  one  of  the  elemental  creatures  whose  emotion  is  all 
in  their  pulses,  and  who  become  inexpressive  or  senti 
mental  when  they  try  to  turn  sensation  into  speech.  His 
caress  had  restored  her  to  her  natural  place  in  the  scheme 
of  things,  and  Darrow  felt  as  if  he  had  clasped  a  tree 
and  a  nymph  had  bloomed  from  it  ... 

The  mere  fact  of  not  having  to  listen  to  her  any  longer 
added  immensely  to  her  charm.  She  continued,  of 
course,  to  talk  to  him,  but  it  didn't  matter,  because  he  no 
longer  made  any  effort  to  follow  her  words,  but  let  her 
voice  run  on  as  a  musical  undercurrent  to  his  thoughts. 

[265] 


THE     REEF 

She  hadn't  a  drop  of  poetry  in  her,  but  she  had  some  of 
the  qualities  that  create  it  in  others;  and  in  moments  of 
heat  the  imagination  does  not  always  feel  the  differ 
ence  .  .  . 

Lying  beside  her  in  the  shade,  Darrow  felt  her  pres 
ence  as  a  part  of  the  charmed  stillness  of  the  summer 
woods,  as  the  element  of  vague  well-being  that  suffused 
his  senses  and  lulled  to  sleep  the  ache  of  wounded  pride. 
All  he  asked  of  her,  as  yet,  was  a  touch  on  the  hand  or 
on  the  lips — and  that  she  should  let  him  go  on  lying 
there  through  the  long  warm  hours,  while  a  black-bird's 
song  throbbed  like  a  fountain,  and  the  summer  wind 
stirred  in  the  trees,  and  close  by,  between  the  nearest 
branches  and  the  brim  of  his  tilted  hat,  a  slight  white 
figure  gathered  up  all  the  floating  threads  of  joy  .  .  . 

He  recalled,  too,  having  noticed,  as  he  lay  staring  at 
a  break  in  the  tree-tops,  a  stream  of  mares'-tails  coming 
up  the  sky.  He  had  said  to  himself:  "It  will  rain  to 
morrow,"  and  the  thought  had  made  the  air  seem 
warmer  and  the  sun  more  vivid  on  her  hair  .  .  .  Per 
haps  if  the  mares'-tails  had  not  come  up  the  sky  their 
adventure  might  have  had  no  sequel.  But  the  cloud 
brought  rain,  and  next  morning  he  looked  out  of  his 
window  into  a  cold  grey  b1ur.  They  had  planned  an 
all-day  excursion  down  the  Seine,  to  the  two  Andelys 
and  Rouen,  and  now,  with  the  long  hours  on  their 
hands,  they  were  both  a  little  at  a  loss  .  .  .  There  was 
the  Louvre,  of  course,  and  the  Luxembourg;  but  he  had 
tried  looking  at  pictures  with  her,  she  had  first  so  per 
sistently  admired  the  worst  things,  and  then  so  frankly 
lapsed  into  indifference,  that  he  had  no  wish  to  repeat 

[266] 


THE     REEF 

the  experiment.  So  they  went  out,  aimlessly,  and  took  a 
cold  wet  walk,  turning  at  length  into  the  deserted  arcades 
of  the  Palais  Royal,  and  finally  drifting  into  one  of  its 
equally  deserted  restaurants,  where  they  lunched  alone 
and  somewhat  dolefully,  served  by  a  wan  old  waiter  with 
the  look  of  a  castaway  who  has  given  up  watching  for  a 
sail  .  .  .  It  was  odd  how  the  waiter's  face  came  back 
to  him  .  .  . 

Perhaps  but  for  the  rain  it  might  never  have  hap- 
pened;  but  what  was  the  use  of  thinking  of  that  now? 
He  tried  to  turn  his  thoughts  to  more  urgent  issues ;  but, 
by  a  strange  perversity  of  association,  every  detail  of  the 
day  was  forcing  itself  on  his  mind  with  an  insistence 
from  which  there  was  no  escape.  Reluctantly  he  re 
lived  the  long  wet  walk  back  to  the  hotel,  after  a  tedious 
hour  at  a  cinematograph  show  on  the  Boulevard.  It  was 
still  raining  when  they  withdrew  from  this  stale  spec 
tacle,  but  she  had  obstinately  refused  to  take  a  cab,  had 
even,  on  the  way,  insisted  on  loitering  under  the  dripping 
awnings  of  shop-windows  and  poking  into  draughty  pas 
sages,  and  finally,  when  they  had  nearly  reached  their 
destination,  had  gone  so  far  as  to  suggest  that  they 
should  turn  back  to  hunt  up  some  show  she  had  heard 
of  in  a  theatre  at  the  Batignolles.  But  at  that  he  had 
somewhat  irritably  protested :  he  remembered  that,  for 
the  first  time,  they  were  both  rather  irritable,  and  vaguely 
disposed  to  resist  one  another's  suggestions.  His  feet 
were  wet,  and  he  was  tired  of  walking,  and  sick  of  the 
smell  of  stuffy  unaired  theatres,  and  he  had  said  he  must 
really  get  back  to  write  some  letters — and  so  they  had 
kept  on  to  the  hotel  .  .  . 

18  [  267  ] 


THE     REEF 


XXVII 

D  ARROW  had  no  idea  how  long  he  had  sat  there 
when  he  heard  Anna's  hand  on  the  door.  The 
effort  of  rising,  and  of  composing  his  face  to  meet  her, 
gave  him  a  factitious  sense  of  self-control.  He  said  to 

himself:  "I  must  decide  on  something "  and  that 

lifted  him  a  hair's  breadth  above  the  whirling  waters. 

She  came  in  with  a  lighter  step,  and  he  instantly  per 
ceived  that  something  unforeseen  and  reassuring  had 
happened. 

"She's  been  with  me.  She  came  and  found  me  on  the 
terrace.  We've  had  a  long  talk  and  she's  explained 
everything.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  never  known  her  before !" 

Her  voice  was  so  moved  and  tender  that  it  checked  his 
start  of  apprehension. 

"She's  explained ?" 

"It's  natural,  isn't  it,  that  she  should  have  felt  a  little 
sore  at  the  kind  of  inspection  she's  been  subjected  to? 
Oh,  not  from  you — I  don't  mean  that !  But  Madame  de 
Chantelle's  opposition — and  her  sending  for  Adelaide 
Painter !  She  told  me  frankly  she  didn't  care  to  owe  her 
husband  to  Adelaide  Painter  .  .  .  She  thinks  now  that 
her  annoyance  at  feeling  herself  so  talked  over  and  scru 
tinized  may  have  shown  itself  in  her  manner  to  Owen, 
and  set  him  imagining  the  insane  things  he  did  ...  I 
understand  all  she  must  have  felt,  and  I  agree  with  her 
that  it's  best  she  should  go  away  for  a  while.  She's 

[268! 


THE     REEF 

made  me,"  Anna  summed  up,  "feel  as  if  I'd  been  dread 
fully  thick-skinned  and  obtuse!" 


"Yes.  As  if  I'd  treated  her  like  the  bric-a-brac  that 
used  to  be  sent  down  here  'on  approval/  to  see  if  it 
would  look  well  with  the  other  pieces."  She  added,  with 
a  sudden  flush  of  enthusiasm  :  "I'm  glad  she's  got  it  in 
her  to  make  one  feel  like  that  !" 

She  seemed  to  wait  for  Darrow  to  agree  with  her,  or  to 
put  some  other  question,  and  he  finally  found  voice 
to  ask  :  "Then  you  think  it's  not  a  final  break  ?"  * 

"I  hope  not  —  I've  never  hoped  it  more  !  I  had  a  word 
with  Owen,  too,  after  I  left  her,  and  I  think  he  under 
stands  that  he  must  let  her  go  without  insisting  on  any 
positive  promise.  She's  excited  ...  he  must  let  her 
calm  down  .  .  .  " 

Again  she  waited,  and  Darrow  said:  "Surely  you 
can  make  him  see  that." 

"She'll  help  me  to  —  she's  to  see  him,  of  course,  before 
she  goes.  She  starts  immediately,  by  the  way,  with  Ade 
laide  Painter,  who  is  motoring  over  to  Francheuil  to 
catch  the  one  o'clock  express  —  and  who,  of  course, 
knows  nothing  of  all  this,  and  is  simply  to  be  told  that 
Sophy  has  been  sent  for  by  the  Farlows." 

Darrow  mutely  signed  his  comprehension,  and  she  went 
on  :  "Owen  is  particularly  anxious  that  neither  Adelaide 
nor  his  grandmother  should  have  the  least  inkling  of 
what's  happened.  The  need  of  shielding  Sophy  will  help 
him  to  control  himself.  He's  coming  to  his  senses,  poor 
boy  ;  he's  ashamed  of  his  wild  talk  already.  He  asked  me 
to  tell  you  so  ;  no  doubt  he'll  tell  you  so  himself." 

[269] 


THE     REEF 

Darrow  made  a  movement  of  protest.  "Oh,  as  to  that 
— the  thing's  not  worth  another  word." 

"Or  another  thought,  either?"  She  brightened. 
"Promise  me  you  won't  even  think  of  it — promise  me 
you  won't  be  hard  on  him !" 

He  was  finding  it  easier  to  smile  back  at  her.  "Why 
should  you  think  it  necessary  to  ask  my  indulgence  for 
Owen?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  her  eyes  wandering  from 
him.  Then  they  came  back  with  a  smile.  "Perhaps  be 
cause  I  need  it  for  myself." 

"For  yourself?" 

"I  mean,  because  I  understand  better  how  one  can  tor 
ture  one's  self  over  unrealities." 

As  Darrow  listened,  the  tension  of  his  nerves  began  to 
relax.  Her  gaze,  so  grave  and  yet  so  sweet,  was  like  a 
deep  pool  into  which  he  could  plunge  and  hide  himself 
from  the  hard  glare  of  his  misery.  As  this  ecstatic  sense 
enveloped  him  he  found  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  fol 
low  her  words  and  to  frame  an  answer;  but  what  did 
anything  matter,  except  that  her  voice  should  go  on, 
and  the  syllables  fall  like  soft  touches  on  his  tortured 
brain  ? 

"Don't  you  know,"  she  continued,  "the  bliss  of  waking 
from  a  bad  dream  in  one's  own  quiet  room,  and  going 
slowly  over  all  the  horror  without  being  afraid  of  it  any 
more?  That's  what  I'm  doing  now.  And  that's  why  I 
understand  Owen  ..."  She  broke  off,  and  he  felt  her 
touch  on  his  arm.  "Because  I'd  dreamed  the  horror 
too!" 

He  understood  her  then,  and  stammered :  "You  ?" 
[270] 


THE     REEF 

"Forgive  me !  And  let  me  tell  you !  .  .  .  It  will  help 
you  to  understand  Owen  .  .  .  There  were  little  things 
.  .  .  little  signs  .  .  .  once  I  had  begun  to  watch  for 
them:  your  reluctance  to  speak  about  her  .  .  .  her  re 
serve  with  you  ...  a  sort  of  constraint  we'd  never  seen 
in  her  before  ..."  /* 

She  laughed  up  at  him,  and  with  her  hands  in  his  he 
contrived  to  say:  "Now  you  understand  why ?" 

"Oh,  I  understand;  of  course  I  understand;  and  I  want 
you  to  laugh  at  me — with  me !  Because  there  were  other 
things  too  .  .  .  crazier  things  still  .  .  .  There  was 
even — last  night  on  the  terrace — her  pink  cloak  ..." 

"Her  pink  cloak?"  Now  he  honestly  wondered,  and 
as  she  saw  it  she  blushed. 

"You've  forgotten  about  the  cloak?  The  pink  cloak 
that  Owen  saw  you  with  at  the  play  in  Paris?  Yes 
.  .  .  yes  ...  I  was  mad  enough  for  that!  ...  It  does 
me  good  to  laugh  about  it  now !  But  you  ought  to  know 
that  I'm  going  to  be  a  jealous  woman  ...  a  ridiculously 
jealous  woman  .  .  .  you  ought  to  be  warned  of  it  in 
time  ..." 

He  had  dropped  her  hands,  and  she  leaned  close  and 
lifted  her  arms  to  his  neck  with  one  of  her  rare  gestures 
of  surrender. 

"I  don't  know  why  it  is;  but  it  makes  me  happier 
now  to  have  been  so  foolish !" 

Her  lips  were  parted  in  a  noiseless  laugh  and  the 
tremor  of  her  lashes  made  their  shadow  move  on  her 
cheek.  He  looked  at  her  through  a  mist  of  pain  and  saw 
all  her  offered  beauty  held  up  like  a  cup  to  his  lips ;  but 
as  he  stooped  to  it  a  darkness  seemed  to  fall  between 

[  27r  ] 

\ 


THE     REEF 

them,  her  arms  slipped  from  his  shoulders  and  she  drew 
away  from  him  abruptly. 

"But  she  was  with  you,  then  ?"  she  exclaimed ;  and 
then,  as  he  stared  at  her:  "Oh,  don't  say  no!  Only  go 
and  look  at  your  eyes !" 

He  stood  speechless,  and  she  pressed  on :  "Don't  deny 
it — oh,  don't  deny  it!  What  will  be  left  for  me  to 
imagine  if  you  do?  Don't  you  see  how  every  single 
thing  cries  it  out?  Owen  sees  it — he  saw  it  again  just 
now !  When  I  told  him  she'd  relented,  and  would  see 
him,  he  said :  'Is  that  Darrow's  doing  too  ?'  " 

Darrow  took  the  onslaught  in  silence.  He  might  have 
spoken,  have  summoned  up  the  usual  phrases  of  banter 
and  denial ;  he  was  not  even  certain  that  they  might  not, 
for  the  moment,  have  served  their  purpose  if  he  could 
have  uttered  them  without  being  seen.  But  he  was  as 
conscious  of  what  had  happened  to  his  face  as  if  he  had 
obeyed  Anna's  bidding  and  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass. 
He  knew  he  could  no  more  hide  from  her  what  was  writ 
ten  there  than  he  could  efface  from  his  soul  the  fiery 
record  of  what  he  had  just  lived  through.  There  before, 
him,  staring  him  in  the  eyes,  and  reflecting  itself  in  all 
his  lineaments,  was  the  overwhelming  fact  of  Sophy 
Viner's  passion  and  of  the  act  by  which  she  had  attested 
it. 

Anna  was  talking  again,  hurriedly,  feverishly,  and  his 
soul  was  wrung  by  the  anguish  in  her  voice.  "Do  speak 
at  last — you  must  speak!  I  don't  want  to  ask  you  to 
harm  the  girl;  but  you  must  see  that  your  silence  is  do 
ing  her  more  harm  than  your  answering  my  questions 
could.  You're  leaving  me  only  the  worst  things  to  think 

[272] 


THE     REEF 

of  her  .  .  .  she'd  see  that  herself  if  she  were  here. 
What  worse  injury  can  you  do  her  than  to  make  me  hate 
her — to  make  me  feel  she's  plotted  with  you  to  de 
ceive  us?" 

"Oh,  not  that!"    Darrow  heard  his  own  voice  before 
he  was  aware  that  he  meant  to  speak.    "Yes ;  I  did  see  her 
in  Paris,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause ;  "but  I  was  bound  to 
respect  her  reason  for  not  wanting  it  known." 
Anna  paled.    "It  was  she  at  the  theatre  that  night  ?" 
"I  was  with  her  at  the  theatre  one  night." 
"Why  should  she  have  asked  you  not  to  say  so  ?" 
"She  didn't  wish  it  known  that  I'd  met  her." 
"Why  shouldn't  she  have  wished  it  known  ?" 
"She  had  quarrelled  with  Mrs.  Murrett  and  come  over 
suddenly  to  Paris,  and  she  didn't  want  the  Farlows  to 
hear  of  it.    I  came  across  her  by  accident,  and  she  asked 
me  not  to  speak  of  having  seen  her." 

"Because  of  her  quarrel  ?  Because  she  was  ashamed  of 
her  part  in  it?" 

"Oh,  no.  There  was  nothing  for  her  to  be  ashamed 
of.  But  the  Farlows  had  found  the  place  for  her,  and 
she  didn't  want  them  to  know  how  suddenly  she'd  had 
to  leave,  and  how  badly  Mrs.  Murrett  had  behaved. 
She  was  in  a  terrible  plight — the  woman  had  even  kept 
back  her  month's  salary.  She  knew  the  Farlows  would 
be  awfully  upset,  and  she  wanted  more  time  to  prepare 
them." 

Darrow  heard  himself  speak  as  though  the  words  had 
proceeded  from  other  lips.  His  explanation  sounded 
plausible  enough,  and  he  half-fancied  Anna's  look  grew 
lighter.  She  waited  a  moment,  as  though  to  be  sure 

[273] 


THE     REEF 

he  had  no  more  to  add ;  then  she  said :  "But  the  Farlows 
did  know;  they  told  me  all  about  it  when  they  sent  her 
to  me." 

He  flushed  as  if  she  had  laid  a  deliberate  trap  for  him. 
"They  may  know  nozv;  they  didn't  then " 

"That's  no  reason  for  her  continuing  now  to  make  a 
mystery  of  having  met  you." 

"It's  the  only  reason  I  can  give  you." 

"Then  I'll  go  and  ask  her  for  one  myself."  She  turned 
and  took  a  few  steps  toward  the  door. 

"Anna!"  He  started  to  follow  her,  and  then  checked 
himself.  "Don't  do  that !" 

"Why  not?" 

"It's  not  like  you  .  .  .  not  generous  .  .  .  " 

She  stood  before  him  straight  and  pale,  but  under  her 
rigid  face  he  saw  the  tumult  of  her  doubt  and  misery. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  ungenerous;  I  don't  want  to  pry 
into  her  secrets.  But  things  can't  be  left  like  this. 
Wouldn't  it  be  better  for  me  to  go  to  her  ?  Surely  she'll 
understand — she'll  explain  ...  It  may  be  some  mere 
trifle  she's  concealing:  something  that  would  horrify  the 
Farlows,  but  that  I  shouldn't  see  any  harm  in  ..." 
She  paused,  her  eyes  searching  his  face.  "A  love  affair, 
I  suppose  .  .  .  that's  it  ?  You  met  her  with  some  man  at 
the  theatre — and  she  was  frightened  and  begged  you  to 
fib  about  it?  Those  poor  young  things  that  have  to  go 
about  among  us  like  machines — oh,  if  you  knew  how  I 
pity  them!" 

"If  you  pity  her,  why  not  let  her  go?" 

She  stared.  "Let  her  go — go  for  good,  you  mean  ?  Is 
that  the  best  you  can  say  for  her  ?" 

[274] 


THE     REEF 

"Let  things  take  their  course.  After  all,  it's  between 
herself  and  Owen." 

"And  you  and  me — and  Effie,  if  Owen  marries  her, 
and  I  leave  my  child  with  them !  Don't  you  see  the  im 
possibility  of  what  you're  asking?  We're  all  bound  to 
gether  in  this  coil." 

Darrow  turned  away  with  a  groan.  "Oh,  let  her  go — 
let  her  go." 

"Then  there  is  something — something  really  bad  ?  She 
was  with  some  one  when  you  met  her?  Some  one  with 

whom  she  was "  She  broke  off,  and  he  saw  her 

struggling  with  new  thoughts.  "If  it's  that,  of  course 
.  .  .  Oh,  don't  you  see,"  she  desperately  appealed  to  him, 
"that  I  must  find  out,  and  that  it's  too  late  now  for  you 
not  to  speak?  Don't  be  afraid  that  I'll  betray  you  .  .  . 
I'll  never,  never  let  a  soul  suspect.  But  I  must  know  the 
truth,  and  surely  it's  best  for  her  that  I  should  find  it 
out  from  you." 

Darrow  waited  a  moment ;  then  he  said  slowly :  "What 
you  imagine's  mere  madness.  She  was  at  the  theatre 
with  me." 

"With  you  ?"  He  saw  a  tremor  pass  through  her,  but 
she  controlled  it  instantly  and  faced  him  straight  and  mo 
tionless  as  a  wounded  creature  in  the  moment  before  it 
feels  its  wound.  "Why  should  you  both  have  made  a 
mystery  of  that?" 

"I've  told  you  the  idea  was  not  mine."  He  cast  about. 
"She  may  have  been  afraid  that  Owen " 

"But  that  was  not  a  reason  for  her  asking  you  to  tell 
me  that  you  hardly  knew  her — that  you  hadn't  even  seen 
her  for  years."  She  broke  off  and  the  blood  rose  to 

[275] 


THE     REEF 

her  face  and  forehead.  "Even  if  she  had  other  reasons, 
there  could  be  only  one  reason  for  your  obeying 
her " 

Silence  fell  between  them,  a  silence  in  which  the  room 
seemed  to  become  suddenly  resonant  with  voices.  Dar- 
row's  gaze  wandered  to  the  window  and  he  noticed  that 
the  gale  of  two  days  before  had  nearly  stripped  the  tops 
of  the  lime-trees  in  the  court.  Anna  had  moved  away 
and  was  resting  her  elbows  against  the  mantel-piece,  her 
head  in  her  hands.  As  she  stood  there  he  took  in  with 
a  new  intensity  of  vision  little  details  of  her  appearance 
that  his  eyes  had  often  cherished :  the  branching  blue 
veins  in  the  backs  of  her  hands,  the  warm  shadow  that 
her  hair  cast  on  her  ear,  and  the  colour  of  the  hair  itself, 
dull  black  with  a  tawny  under-surface,  like  the  wings  of 
certain  birds.  He  felt  it  to  be  useless  to  speak. 

After  a  while  she  lifted  her  head  and  said :  "I  shall  not 
see  her  again  before  she  goes." 

He  made  no  answer,  and  turning  to  him  she  added: 
"That  is  why  she's  going,  I  suppose?  Because  she  loves 
you  and  won't  give  you  up?" 

Darrow  waited.  The  paltriness  of  conventional  denial 
was  so  apparent  to  him  that  even  if  it  could  have  de 
layed  discovery  he  could  no  longer  have  resorted  to  it. 
Under  all  his  other  fears  was  the  dread  of  dishonouring 
the  hour. 

"She  has  given  me  up,"  he  said  at  last. 


THE     REEF 


XXVIII 

WHEN  he  had  gone  out  of  the  room  Anna  stood 
where  he  had  left  her.    ''I  must  believe  him!    I 
must  believe  him!"  she  said. 

/  A  moment  before,  at  the  moment  when  she  had  lifted 
her  arms  to  his  neck,  she  had  been  wrapped  in  a  sense 
of  complete  security.  All  the  spirits  of  doubt  had  been 
exorcised,  and  her  love  was  once  more  the  clear  habita 
tion  in  which  every  thought  and  feeling  could  move  in 
blissful  freedom.  And  then,  as  she  raised  her  face  to 
Darrow's  and  met  his  eyes,  she  had  seemed  to  look  into 
the  very  ruins  of  his  soul.  That  was  the  only  way  she 
could  express  it.  It  was  as  though  he  and  she  had  been 
looking  at  two  sides  of  the  same  thing,  and  the  side  she 
had  seen  had  been  all  light  and  life,  and  his  a  place  of 
graves  .  .  . 

She  didn't  now  recall  who  had  spoken  first,  or  even, 
very  clearly,  what  had  been  said.  It  seemed  to  her  only 
a  moment  later  that  she  had  found  herself  standing  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room — the  room  which  had  suddenly 
grown  so  small  that,  even  with  its  length  between  them, 
she  felt  as  if  he  touched  her — crying  out  to  him  "It  is 
because  of  you  she's  going !"  and  reading  the  avowal  in 
his  face. 

That  was  his  secret,  then,  their  secret :  he  had  met  the 
girl  in  Paris  and  helped  her  in  her  straits — lent  her 
money,  Anna  vaguely  conjectured — and  she  had  fallen  in 
love  with  him,  and  on  meeting  him  again  had  been  sud 
denly  overmastered  by  her  passion.  Anna,  dropping  back 

[277] 


THE     REEF 

into  her  sofa-corner,  sat  staring  these  facts  in  the  face. 

The  girl  had  been  in  a  desperate  plight — frightened, 
penniless,  outraged  by  what  had  happened,  and  not  know 
ing  (with  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Murrett)  what  fresh  in 
jury  might  impend;  and  Darrow,  meeting  her  in  this 
distracted  hour,  had  pitied,  counselled,  been  kind  to  her, 
with  the  fatal,  the  inevitable  result.  There  were  the  facts 
as  Anna  made  them  out :  that,  at  least,  was  their  external 
aspect,  was  as  much  of  them  as  she  had  been  suffered  to 
see;  and  into  the  secret  intricacies  they  might  cover  she 
dared  not  yet  project  her  thoughts. 

"I  must  believe  him  ...  I  must  believe  him  ..." 
She  kept  on  repeating  the  words  like  a  talisman.  It  was 
natural,  after  all,  that  he  should  have  behaved  as  he 
had:  defended  the  girl's  piteous  secret  to  the  last.  She 
too  began  to  feel  the  contagion  of  his  pity — the  stir,  in 
her  breast,  of  feelings  deeper  and  more  native  to  her 
than  the  pains  of  jealousy.  From  the  security  of  her 
blessedness  she  longed  to  lean  over  with  compassionate 
hands  .  .  .  But  Owen?  What  was  Owen's  part  to  be? 
She  owed  herself  first  to  him — she  was  bound  to  pro 
tect  him  not  only  from  all  knowledge  of  the  secret  she 
had  surprised,  but  also — and  chiefly! — from  its  conse 
quences.  Yes  :  the  girl  must  go — there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  it — Darrow  himself  had  seen  it  from  the  first;  and 
at  the  thought  she  had  a  wild  revulsion  of  relief,  as 
though  she  had  been  trying  to  create  in  her  heart  the 
delusion  of  a  generosity  she  could  not  feel  .  .  . 

The  one  fact  on  which  she  could  stay  her  mind  was  that 
Sophy  was  leaving  immediately;  would  be  out  of  the 
house  within  an  hour.  Once  she  was  gone,  it  would  be 

[  2/8  ] 


THE     REEF 

easier  to  bring  Owen  to  the  point  of  understanding  that 
the  break  was  final ;  if  necessary,  to  work  upon  the  girl  to 
make  him  see  it.  But  that,  Anna  was  sure,  would  not  be 
necessary.  It  was  clear  that  Sophy  Viner  was  leaving 
Givre  with  no  thought  of  ever  seeing  it  again  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  as  she  tried  to  put  some  order  in  her 
thoughts,  she  heard  Owen's  call  at  the  door:  "Mother! 

"  a  name  he  seldom  gave  her.  There  was  a  new 

note  in  his  voice:  the  note  of  a  joyous  impatience.  It 
made  her  turn  hastily  to  the  glass  to  see  what  face  she 
was  about  to  show  him;  but  before  she  had  had  time  to 
compose  it  he  was  in  the  room  and  she  was  caught  fa  a 
school-boy  hug. 

"It's  all  right !  It's  all  right !  And  it's  all  your  doing ! 
I  want  to  do  the  worst  kind  of  penance — bell  and  candle 
and  the  rest.  I've  been  through  it  with  her,  and  now  she 
hands  me  on  to  you,  and  you're  to  call  me  any  names  you 
please."  He  freed  her  with  his  happy  laugh.  "I'm  to 
be  stood  in  the  corner  till  next  week,  and  then  I'm  to  go 
up  to  see  her.  And  she  says  I  owe  it  all  to  you !" 

"To  me?"  It  was  the  first  phrase  she  found  to  clutch 
at  as  she  tried  to  steady  herself  in  the  eddies  of  his  joy. 

"Yes :  you  were  so  patient,  and  so  dear  to  her ;  and  you 
saw  at  once  what  a  damned  ass  I'd  been !"  She  tried  a 
smile,  and  it  seemed  to  pass  muster  with  him,  for  he  sent 
it  back  in  a  broad  beam.  "That's  not  so  difficult  to  see  ? 
No,  I  admit  it  doesn't  take  a  microscope.  But  you  were 
so  wise  and  wonderful — you  always  are.  I've  been  mad 
these  last  days,  simply  mad — you  and  she  might  well  have 
washed  your  hands  of  me !  And  instead,  it's  all  right — 
all  right!" 

[279] 


THE     REEF 

She  drew  back  a  little,  trying  to  keep  the  smile  on  her 
lips  and  not  let  him  get  the  least  glimpse  of  what  it  hid. 
Now  if  ever,  indeed,  it  behoved  her  to  be  wise  and  won 
derful! 

"I'm  so  glad,  dear ;  so  glad.  If  only  you'll  always  feel 
like  that  about  me  ..."  She  stopped,  hardly  knowing 
what  she  said,  and  aghast  at  the  idea  that  her  own  hands 
should  have  retied  the  knot  she  imagined  to  be  broken. 
But  she  saw  he  had  something  more  to  say;  something 
hard  to  get  out,  but  absolutely  necessary  to  express.  He 
caught  her  hands,  pulled  her  close,  and,  with  his  forehead 
drawn  into  its  whimsical  smiling  wrinkles,  "Look  here," 
he  cried,  "if  Darrow  wants  to  call  me  a  damned  ass  too 
you're  not  to  stop  him !" 

It  brought  her  back  to  a  sharper  sense  of  her  central 
peril :  of  the  secret  to  be  kept  from  him  at  whatever  cost 
to  her  racked  nerves. 

"Oh,  you  know,  he  doesn't  always  wait  for  orders!" 
On  the  whole  it  sounded  better  than  she'd  feared. 

"You  mean  he's  called  me  one  already  ?"  He  accepted 
the  fact  with  his  gayest  laugh.  "Well,  that  saves  a 
lot  of  trouble;  now  we  can  pass  to  the  order  of  the 

day "  he  broke  off  and  glanced  at  the  clock — "which 

is,  you  know,  dear,  that  she's  starting  in  about  an  hour ; 
she  and  Adelaide  must  already  be  snatching  a  hasty  sand 
wich.  You'll  come  down  to  bid  them  good-bye?" 

"Yes — of  course." 

There  had,  in  fact,  grown  upon  her  while  he  spoke  the 
urgency  of  seeing  Sophy  Viner  again  before  she  left. 
The  thought  was  deeply  distasteful:  Anna  shrank  from 
encountering  the  girl  till  she  had  cleared  a  way  through 

[280! 


THE     REEF 

her  own  perplexities.  But  it  was  obvious  that  since  they 
had  separated,  barely  an  hour  earlier,  the  situation  had 
taken  a  new  shape.  Sophy  Viner  had  apparently  recon 
sidered  her  decision  to  break  amicably  but  definitely  with 
Owen,  and  stood  again  in  their  path,  a  menace  and  a  mys 
tery;  and  confused  impulses  of  resistance  stirred  in 
Anna's  mind. 

She  felt  Owen's  touch  on  her  arm.  "Are  you  coming  ?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  presently." 

"What's  the  matter?    You  look  so  strange." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  strange  ?" 

"I  don't  know:  startled — surprised "  She  read 

what  her  look  must  be  by  its  sudden  reflection  in  his  face. 

"Do  I  ?  No  wonder !  You've  given  us  all  an  exciting 
morning." 

He  held  to  his  point.  "You're  more  excited  now  that 
there's  no  cause  for  it.  What  on  earth  has  happened 
since  I  saw  you  ?" 

He  looked  about  the  room,  as  if  seeking  the  clue  to 
her  agitation,  and  in  her  dread  of  what  he  might  guess 
she  answered:  "What  has  happened  is  simply  that  I'm 
rather  tired.  Will  you  ask  Sophy  to  come  up  and  see 
me  here?" 

While  she  waited  she  tried  to  think  what  she  should 
say  when  the  girl  appeared ;  but  she  had  never  been  more 
conscious  of  her  inability  to  deal  with  the  oblique  and 
the  tortuous.  She  had  lacked  the  hard  teachings  of 
experience,  and  an  instinctive  disdain  for  whatever  was 
less  clear  and  open  than  her  own  conscience  had  kept  her 
from  learning  anything  of  the  intricacies  and  contradic- 

[281] 


THE     REEF 

tions  of  other  hearts.  She  said  to  herself:  "I  must 

find  out "  yet  everything  in  her  recoiled  from  the 

means  by  which  she  felt  it  must  be  done  .  .  . 

Sophy  Viner  appeared  almost  immediately,  dressed  for 
departure,  her  little  bag  on  her  arm.  She  was  still  pale 
to  the  point  of  haggardness,  but  with  a  light  upon  her 
that  struck  Anna  with  surprise.  Or  was  it,  perhaps,  that 
she  was  looking  at  the  girl  with  new  eyes:  seeing  her, 
for  the  first  time,  not  as  Effie's  governess,  not  as  Owen's 
bride,  but  as  the  embodiment  of  that  unknown  peril  lurk 
ing  in  the  background  of  every  woman's  thoughts  about 
her  lover  ?  Anna,  at  any  rate,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  es 
trangement,  noted  in  her  graces  and  snares  never  before 
perceived.  It  was  only  the  flash  of  a  primitive  instinct, 
but  it  lasted  long  enough  to  make  her  ashamed  of  the 
darknesses  it  lit  up  in  her  heart  .  .  . 

She  signed  to  Sophy  to  sit  down  on  the  sofa  beside 
her.  "I  asked  you  to  come  up  to  me  because  I  wanted 
to  say  good-bye  quietly/'  she  explained,  feeling  her  lips 
tremble,  but  trying  to  speak  in  a  tone  of  friendly  natural 
ness. 

The  girl's  only  answer  was  a  faint  smile  of  acquies 
cence,  and  Anna,  disconcerted  by  her  silence,  went  on: 
''You've  decided,  then,  not  to  break  your  engagement?" 

Sophy  Viner  raised  her  head  with  a  look  of  surprise. 
Evidently  the  question,  thus  abruptly  put,  must  have 
sounded  strangely  on  the  lips  of  so  ardent  a  partisan  as 
Mrs.  Leath !  "I  thought  that  was  what  you  wished,"  she 
said. 

"What  I  wished  ?"  Anna's  heart  shook  against  her  side. 
"I  wish,  of  course,  whatever  seems  best  for  Owen  .  .  . 

[282] 


THE     REEF 

It's  natural,  you  must  understand,  that  that  considera 
tion  should  come  first  with  me  ..." 

Sophy  was  looking  at  her  steadily.  "I  supposed  it  was 
the  only  one  that  counted  with  you." 

The  curtness  of  retort  roused  Anna's  latent  antag 
onism.  "It  is,"  she  said,  in  a  hard  voice  that  startled 
her  as  she  heard  it.  Had  she  ever  spoken  so  to  any  one 
before?  She  felt  frightened,  as  though  her  very  nature 
had  changed  without  her  knowing  it  ...  Feeling  the 
girl's  astonished  gaze  still  on  her,  she  continued :  "The 
suddenness  of  the  change  has  naturally  surprised  me. 
When  I  left  you  it  was  understood  that  you  were  to  re^- 
serve  your  decision " 

"Yes." 

"And  now ?"  Anna  waited  for  a  reply  that  did 

not  come.  She  did  not  understand  the  girl's  attitude,  the 
edge  of  irony  in  her  short  syllables,  the  plainly  premedi 
tated  determination  to  lay  the  burden  of  proof  on  her 
interlocutor.  Anna  felt  the  sudden  need  to  lift  their  in 
tercourse  above  this  mean  level  of  defiance  and  distrust 
She  looked  appealingly  at  Sophy. 

"Isn't  it  best  that  we  should  speak  quite  frankly  ?  It's 
this  change  on  your  part  that  perplexes  me.  You  can 
hardly  be  surprised  at  that.  It's  true,  I  asked  you  not  to 
break  with  Owen  too  abruptly — and  I  asked  it,  believe 
me,  as  much  for  your  sake  as  for  his :  I  wanted  you  to 
take  time  to  think  over  the  difficulty  that  seems  to  have 
arisen  between  you.  The  fact  that  you  felt  it  required 
thinking  over  seemed  to  show  you  wouldn't  take  the 
final  step  lightly — wouldn't,  I  mean,  accept  of  Owen 
more  than  you  could  give  him.  But  your  change  of  mind 
19  [  283  ] 


THE     REEF 

obliges  me  to  ask  the  question  I  thought  you  would 
have  asked  yourself.  Is  there  any  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  marry  Owen  ?" 

She  stopped  a  little  breathlessly,  her  eyes  on  Sophy 

Viner's  burning  face.  "Any  reason ?  What  do  you 

mean  by  a  reason  ?" 

Anna  continued  to  look  at  her  gravely.  "Do  you  love 
some  one  else?"  she  asked. 

Sophy's  first  look  was  one  of  wonder  and  a  faint  re 
lief;  then  she  gave  back  the  other's  scrutiny  in  a  glance 
of  indescribable  reproach.  "Ah,  you  might  have  waited !" 
she  exclaimed. 

"Waited ?" 

"Till  I'd  gone :  till  I  was  out  of  the  house.  You  might 
have  known  .  .  .  you  might  have  guessed  ..."  She 
turned  her  eyes  again  on  Anna.  "I  only  meant  to  let 
him  hope  a  little  longer,  so  that  he  shouldn't  suspect  any 
thing;  of  course  I  can't  marry  him,"  she  said. 

Anna  stood  motionless,  silenced  by  the  shock  of  the 
avowal.  She  too  was  trembling,  less  with  anger  than 
with  a  confused  compassion.  But  the  feeling  was  so  blent 
with  others,  less  generous  and  more  obscure,  that  she 
found  no  words  to  express  it,  and  the  two  women  faced 
each  other  without  speaking. 

"I'd  better  go,"  Sophy  murmured  at  length  with  low 
ered  head. 

The  words  roused  in  Anna  a  latent  impulse  of  com 
punction.  The  girl  looked  so  young,  so  exposed  and 
desolate !  And  what  thoughts  must  she  be  hiding  in  her 
heart!  It  was  impossible  that  they  should  part  in  such 
a  spirit. 

[284] 


THE     REEF 

"I  want  you  to  know  that  no  one  said  anything  ...  It 
was  I  who  ..." 

Sophy  looked  at  her.  "You  mean  that  Mr.  Darrow 
didn't  tell  you  ?  Of  course  not :  do  you  suppose  I  thought 
he  did  ?  You  found  it  out,  that's  all — I  knew  you  would. 
In  your  place  I  should  have  guessed  it  sooner." 

The  words  were  spoken  simply,  without  irony  or  em 
phasis  ;  but  they  went  through  Anna  like  a  sword.  Yes, 
the  girl  would  have  had  divinations,  promptings  that 
she  had  not  had  !  She  felt  half  envious  of  such  a  sad  pre 
cocity  of  wisdom. 

"I'm  so  sorry  ...  so  sorry  ..."  she  murmured. 

"Things  happen  that  way.  Now  I'd  better  go.  I'd 
like  to  say  good-bye  to  Effie." 

"Oh "  it  broke  in  a  cry  from  Effie's  mother.  "Not 

like  this — you  mustn't!  I  feel — you  make  me  feel  too 
horribly :  as  if  I  were  driving  you  away  ..."  The  words 
had  rushed  up  from  the  depths  of  her  bewildered  pity. 

"No  one  is  driving  me  away :  I  had  to  go,"  she  heard 
the  girl  reply. 

There  was  another  silence,  during  which  passionate  im 
pulses  of  magnanimity  warred  in  Anna  with  her  doubts 
and  dreads.  At  length,  her  eyes  on  Sophy's  face :  "Yes, 
you  must  go  now,"  she  began ;  "but  later  on  ...  after 
a  while,  when  all  this  is  over  ...  if  there's  no  reason 

why  you  shouldn't  marry  Owen "  she  paused  a 

moment  on  the  words — "I  shouldn't  want  you  to  think 
I  stood  between  you  ..." 

"You?"  Sophy  flushed  again,  and  then  grew  pale. 
She  seemed  to  try  to  speak,  but  no  words  came. 

"Yes !  It  was  not  true  when  I  said  just  now  that  I  was 
[285] 


THE     REEF 

thinking  only  of  Owen.  I'm  sorry — oh,  so  sorry ! — for 
you  too.  Your  life — I  know  how  hard  it's  been;  and 
mine  .  .  .  mine's  so  full  .  .  .  Happy  women  under 
stand  best!"  Anna  drew  near  and  touched  the  girl's 
hand;  then  she  began  again,  pouring  all  her  soul  into 
the  broken  phrases:  "It's  terrible  now  .  .  .  you  see 
no  future;  but  if,  by  and  bye  .  .  .  you  know  best  .  .  . 
but  you're  so  young  .  .  .  and  at  your  age  things  do  pass. 
If  there's  no  reason,  no  real  reason,  why  you  shouldn't 
marry  Owen,  I  want  him  to  hope,  I'll  help  him  to  hope 
...  if  you  say  so  .  .  .  " 

With  the  urgency  of  her  pleading  her  clasp  tightened 
on  Sophy's  hand,  but  it  warmed  to  no  responsive  tremor : 
the  girl  seemed  numb,  and  Anna  was  frightened  by  the 
stony  silence  of  her  look.  "I  suppose  I'm  not  more 
than  half  a  woman,"  she  mused,  "for  I  don't  want  my 
happiness  to  hurt  her;"  and  aloud  she  repeated:  "If 
only  you'll  tell  me  there's  no  reason " 

The  girl  did  not  speak ;  but  suddenly,  like  a  snapped 
branch,  she  bent,  stooped  down  to  the  hand  that  clasped 
her,  and  laid  her  lips  upon  it  in  a  stream  of  weeping.  She 
cried  silently,  continuously,  abundantly,  as  though  Anna's 
touch  had  released  the  waters  of  some  deep  spring  of 
pain ;  then,  as  Anna,  moved  and  half  afraid,  leaned  over 
her  with  a  sound  of  pity,  she  stood  up  and  turned 
away. 

"You're  going,  then — for  good — like  this?"  Anna 
moved  toward  her  and  stopped.  Sophy  stopped  too,  with 
eyes  that  shrank  from  her. 

"Oh "  Anna  cried,  and  hid  her  face. 

The  girl  walked  across  the  room  and  paused  again 
[286] 


THE     REEF 

in  the  doorway.    From  there  she  flung  back :    "I  wanted 
it — I  chose  it.     He  was  good  to  me — no  one  ever  was 
so  good !" 
The  door-handle  turned,  and  Anna  heard  her  go. 


H 


XXIX 

ER  first  thought  was :  "He's  going  too  in  a  few 
hours — I  needn't  see  him  again  before  he 
leaves  ..."  At  that  moment  the  possibility  of  having 
to  look  in  Darrow's  face  and  hear  him  speak  seemed  to 
her  more  unendurable  than  anything  else  she  could  im 
agine.  Then,  on  the  next  wave  of  feeling,  came  the  de 
sire  to  confront  him  at  once  and  wring  from  him  she 
knew  not  what :  avowal,  denial,  justification,  anything  that 
should  open  some  channel  of  escape  to  the  flood  of  her 
pent-up  anguish. 

She  had  told  Owen  she  was  tired,  and  this  seemed 
a  sufficient  reason  for  remaining  upstairs  when  the  motor 
came  to  the  door  and  Miss  Painter  and  Sophy  Viner  were 
borne  off  in  it;  sufficient  also  for  sending  word  to 
Madame  de  Chantelle  that  she  would  not  come  down  till 
after  luncheon.  Having  despatched  her  maid  with  this 
message,  she  lay  down  on  her  sofa  and  stared  before  her 
into  darkness  .  .  . 

She  had  been  unhappy  before,  and  the  vision  of  old 
miseries  flocked  like  hungry  ghosts  about  her  fresh  pain : 
she  recalled  her  youthful  disappointment,  the  failure  of 
her  marriage,  the  wasted  years  that  followed ;  but  those 
were  negative  sorrows,  denials  and  postponements  of 

[287] 


THE     REEF 

life.  She  seemed  in  no  way  related  to  their  shadowy 
victim,  she  who  was  stretched  on  this  fiery  rack  of  the 
irreparable.  She  had  suffered  before — yes,  but  lucidly, 
reflectively,  elegiacally :  now  she  was  suffering  as  a  hurt 
animal  must,  blindly,  furiously,  with  the  single  fierce  ani 
mal  longing  that  the  awful  pain  should  stop  .  .  . 

She  heard  her  maid  knock,  and  she  hid  her  face  and 
made  no  answer.  The  knocking  continued,  and  the  dis 
cipline  of  habit  at  length  made  her  lift,  her  head,  com 
pose  he*r  face  and  hold  out  her  hand  to  the  note  the 
woman  brought  her.  It  was  a  word  from  Darrow— 
"May  I  see  you?" — and  she  said  at  once,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  thin  and  empty :  "Ask  Mr.  Darrow  to  come  up." 

The  maid  enquired  if  she  wished  to  have  her  hair 
smoothed  first,  and  she  answered  that  it  didn't  matter; 
but  when  the  door  had  closed,  the  instinct  of  pride  drew 
her  to  her  feet  and  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass 
above  the  mantelpiece  and  passed  her  hands  over  her 
hair.  Her  eyes  were  burning  and  her  face  looked  tired 
and  thinner;  otherwise  she  could  see  no  change  in  her 
appearance,  and  she  wondered  that  at  such  a  moment  her 
body  should  seem  as  unrelated  to  the  self  that  writhed 
within  her  as  if  it  had  been  a  statue  or  a  picture. 

The  maid  reopened  the  door  to  show  in  Darrow,  and 
he  paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  as  if  waiting  for 
Anna  to  speak.  He  was  extremely  pale,  but  he  looked 
neither  ashamed  nor  uncertain,  and  she  said  to  herself," 
with  a  perverse  thrill  of  appreciation :  "He's  as  proud 
as  I  am." 

Aloud  she  asked  :    "You  wanted  to  see  me  ?" 

"Naturally,"  he  replied  in  a  grave  voice. 

[288] 


THE     REEF 

"Don't!  It's  useless.  I  know  everything.  Nothing 
you  can  say  will  help." 

At  the  direct  affirmation  he  turned  even  paler,  and  his 
eyes,  which  he  kept  resolutely  fixed  on  her,  confessed 
his  misery. 

"You  allow  me  no  voice  in  deciding  that  ?" 

"Deciding  what  ?" 

"That  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said?"  He  waited 
for  Ler  to  answer,  and  then  went  on :  "I  don't  even  know 
what  you  mean  by  'everything'." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  more  there  is !  I  know 
enough.  I  implored  her  to  deny  it,  and  she  couldn't  .  .  . 
What  can  you  and  I  have  to  say  to  each  other?"  Her 
voice  broke  into  a  sob.  The  animal  anguish  was  upon  her 
again — just  a  blind  cry  against  her  pain ! 

Darrow  kept  his  head  high  and  his  eyes  steady.  "It 
must  be  as  you  wish;  and  yet  it's  not  like  you  to  be 
afraid." 

"Afraid?" 

"To  talk  things  out— to  face  them." 

"It's  for  you  to  face  this — not  me !" 

"All  I  ask  is  to  face  it — but  with  you."  Once  more  he 
paused.  "Won't  you  tell  me  what  Miss  Viner  told  you  ?" 

"Oh,  she's  generous — to  the  utmost!"  The  pain 
caught  her  like  a  physical  throe.  It  suddenly  came  to 
her  how  the  girl  must  have  loved  him  to  be  so  generous 
— what  memories  there  must  be  between  them ! 

"Oh,  go,  please  go.  It's  too  horrible!  Why  should 
I  have  to  see  you?"  she  stammered,  lifting  her  hands 
to  her  eyes. 

With  her  face  hidden  she  waited  to  hear  him  move 

[289] 


THE     REEF 

away,  to  hear  the  door  open  and  close  again,  as,  a  few 
hours  earlier,  it  had  opened  and  closed  on  Sophy  Viner. 
But  Darrow  made  no  sound  or  movement:  he  too  was 
waiting.  Anna  felt  a  thrill  of  resentment :  his  presence 
was  an  outrage  on  her  sorrow,  a  humiliation  to  her  pride. 
It  was  strange  that  he  should  wait  for  her  to  tell  him  so ! 

"You  want  me  to  leave  Givre?"  he  asked  at  length. 
She  made  no  answer,  and  he  went  on :  "Of  course  I'll 
do  as  you  wish;  but  if  I  go  now  am  I  not  to  see  you 
again  ?" 

His  voice  was  firm :  his  pride  was  answering  her  pride ! 

She  faltered:    "You  must  see  it's  useless " 

"I  might  remind  you  that  you're  dismissing  me  without 
a  hearing " 

"Without  a  hearing?    I've  heard  you  both !" 

"but  I  won't/'  he  continued,  "remind  you  of  that, 

•or  of  anything  or  any  one  but  Owen." 

-Owen ?" 

"Yes ;  if  we  could  somehow  spare  him " 

She  had  dropped  her  hands  and  turned  her  startled 
eyes  on  him.  It  seemed  to  her  an  age  since  she  had 
thought  of  Owen ! 

"You  see,  don't  you,"  Darrow  continued,  "that  if  you 
send  me  away  now " 

She  interrupted :     "Yes,  I  see "  and  there  was  a 

long  silence  between  them.  At  length  she  said,  very 
low :  "I  don't  want  any  one  else  to  suffer  as  I'm  suffer 
ing  ..." 

"Owen  knows  I  meant  to  leave  tomorrow,"  Darrow 
went  on.  "Any  sudden  change  of  plan  may  make  him 
think  ..." 

[290] 


THE     REEF 

Oh,  she  saw  his  inevitable  logic:  the  horror  of  it 
was  on  every  side  of  her!  It  had  seemed  possible  to 
control  her  grief  and  face  Darrow  calmly  while  she  was 
upheld  by  the  belief  that  this  was  their  last  hour  together, 
that  after  he  had  passed  out  of  the  room  there  would  be 
no  fear  of  seeing  him  again,  no  fear  that  his  nearness,  his 
look,  his  voice,  and  all  the  unseen  influences  that  flowed 
from  him,  would  dissolve  her  soul  to  weakness.  But  her 
courage  failed  at  the  idea  of  having  to  conspire  with  him 
to  shield  Owen,  of  keeping  up  with  him,  for  Owen's  sake, 
a  feint  of  union  and  felicity.  To  live  at  Darrow's  side 
in  seeming  intimacy  and  harmony  for  another  twenty- 
four  hours  seemed  harder  than  to  live  without  him  for  all 
the  rest  of  her  days.  Her  strength  failed  her,  and  she 
threw  herself  down  and  buried  her  sobs  in  the  cushions 
where  she  had  so  often  hidden  a  face  aglow  with  happi 
ness. 

"Anna "  His  voice  was  close  to  her.  "Let  me  talk 

to  you  quietly.  It's  not  worthy  of  either  of  us  to  be 
afraid." 

Words  of  endearment  would  have  offended  her;  but 
her  heart  rose  at  the  call  to  her  courage. 

"I've  no  defense  to  make,"  he  went  on.  "The  facts  are 
miserable  enough ;  but  at  least  I  want  you  to  see  them  as 
they  are.  Above  all,  I  want  you  to  know  the  truth  about 
Miss  Viner " 

The  name  sent  the  blood  to  Anna's  forehead.  She 
raised  her  head  and  faced  him.  "Why  should  I  know 
more  of  her  than  what  she's  told  me?  I  never  wish  to 
hear  her  name  again !" 

"It's  because  you  feel  about  her  in  that  way  that  I  ask 
[291] 


THE     REEF 

you — in  the  name  of  common  charity — to  let  me  give 
you  the  facts  as  they  are,  and  not  as  you've  probably 
imagined  them." 

"I've  told  you  I  don't  think  uncharitably  of  her.  I 
don't  want  to  think  of  her  at  all !" 

"That's  why  I  tell  you  you're  afraid." 

"Afraid?" 

"Yes.  You've  always  said  you  wanted,  above  all,  to 
look  at  life,  at  the  human  problem,  as  it  is,  without  fear 
and  without  hypocrisy;  and  it's  not  always  a  pleasant 
thing  to  look  at."  He  broke  off,  and  then  began  again : 
"Don't  think  this  a  plea  for  myself!  I  don't  want  to 
say  a  word  to  lessen  my  offense.  I  don't  want  to  talk 
of  myself  at  all.  Even  if  I  did,  I  probably  couldn't  make 
you  understand — I  don't,  myself,  as  I  look  back.  Be  just 
to  me — it's  your  right;  all  I  ask  you  is  to  be  generous 
to  Miss  Viner  ..." 

She  stood  up  trembling.  "You're  free  to  be  as  gener 
ous  to  her  as  you  please !" 

"Yes :  you've  made  it  clear  to  me  that  I'm  free.  But 
there's  nothing  I  can  do  for  her  that  will  help  her  half 
as  much  as  your  understanding  her  would." 

''Nothing  you  can  do  for  her?    You  can  marry  her!" 

His  face  hardened.  "You  certainly  couldn't  wish  her 
a  worse  fate  f 

"It  must  have  been  what  she  expected  .  .  .  relied 
on  ...  "  He  was  silent,  and  she  broke  out :  "Or  what  is 
she  ?  What  are  you  ?  It's  too  horrible  !  On  your  way 
here  .  .  .  to  me  .  .  .  "  She  felt  the  tears  in  her  throat 
and  stopped. 

"That  was  it,"  he  said  bluntly.    She  stared  at  him. 
[292] 


THE     REEF 

"I  was  on  my  way  to  you — after  repeated  delays  and 
postponements  of  your  own  making.  At  the  very  last 
you  turned  me  back  with  a  mere  word — and  without  ex 
planation.  I  waited  for  a  letter;  and  none  came.  I'm 
not  saying  this  to  justify  myself.  I'm  simply  trying  to 
make  you  understand.  I  felt  hurt  and  bitter  and  bewil 
dered.  I  thought  you  meant  to  give  me  up.  And  sud 
denly,  in  my  way,  I  found  some  one  to  be  sorry  for,  to  be 
of  use  to.  That,  I  swear  to  you,  was  the  way  it  began. 
The  rest  was  a  moment's  folly  ...  a  flash  of  mad 
ness  ...  as  such  things  are.  We've  never  seen  each 
other  since  ..." 

Anna  was  looking  at  him  coldly.  "You  sufficiently 
describe  her  in  saying  that !" 

"Yes,  if  you  measure  her  by  conventional  standards — 
which  is  what  you  always  declare  you  never  do." 

"Conventional  standards?  A  girl  who "  She  was 

checked  by  a  sudden  rush  of  almost  physical  repugnance. 
Suddenly  she  broke  out :  "I  always  thought  her  an  ad 
venturess  !" 

"Always?" 

"I  don't  mean  always  ...  but  after  you  came  ..." 

"She's  not  an  adventuress." 

"You  mean  that  she  professes  to  act  on  the  new  theo 
ries?  The  stuff  that  awful  women  rave  about  on  plat 
forms?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  she  pretended  to  have  a  theory " 

"She  hadn't  even  that  excuse?" 

"She  had  the  excuse  of  her  loneliness,  her  unhappiness 
— of  miseries  and  humiliations  that  a  woman  like  you 
can't  even  guess.  She  had  nothing  to  look  back  to  but 

[293] 


THE     REEF 

indifference  or  unkindness — nothing  to  look  forward  to 
but  anxiety.  She  saw  I  was  sorry  for  her  and  it  touched 
her.  She  made  too  much  of  it — she  exaggerated  it.  I 
ought  to  have  seen  the  danger,  but  I  didn't.  There's  no 
possible  excuse  for  what  I  did." 

Anna  listened  to  him  in  speechless  misery.  Every 
word  he  spoke  threw  back  a  disintegrating  light  on  their 
own  past.  He  had  come  to  her  with  an  open  face  and 
a  clear  conscience — come  to  her  from  this!  If  his  se 
curity  was  the  security  of  falsehood  it  was  horrible;  if 
it  meant  that  he  had  forgotten,  it  was  worse.  She  would 
have  liked  to  stop  her  ears,  to  close  her  eyes,  to  shut  out 
every  sight  and  sound  and  suggestion  of  a  world  in  which 
such  things  could  be;  and  at  the  same  time  she  was  tor 
mented  by  the  desire  to  know  more,  to  understand  better, 
to  feel  herself  less  ignorant  and  inexpert  in  matters  which 
made  so  much  of  the  stuff  of  human  experience.  What 
did  he  mean  by  "a  moment's  folly,  a  flash  of  madness"? 
How  did  people  enter  on  such  adventures,  how  pass  out  of 
them  without  more  visible  traces  of  their  havoc?  Her 
imagination  recoiled  from  the  vision  of  a  sudden  debas 
ing  familiarity :  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  thoughts  would 
never  again  be  pure  .  .  . 

"I  swear  to  you,"  she  heard  Darrow  saying,  "it  was 
simply  that,  and  nothing  more." 

She  wondered  at  his  composure,  his  competence,  at  his 
knowing  so  exactly  what  to  say.  No  doubt  men  often  had 
to  make  such  explanations :  they  had  the  formulas  by 
heart  ...  A  leaden  lassitude  descended  on  her.  She 
passed  from  flame  and  torment  into  a  colourless  cold 
world  where  everything  surrounding  her  seemed  equally 

[294] 


THE     REEF 

indifferent  and  remote.  For  a  moment  she  simply  ceased 
to  feel. 

She  became  aware  that  Darrow  was  waiting  for  her 
to  speak,  and  she  made  an  effort  to  represent  to  herself 
the  meaning  of  what  he  had  just  said;  but  her  mind  was 
as  blank  as  a  blurred  mirror.  Finally  she  brought  out: 
"I  don't  think  I  understand  what  you've  told  me." 

"No;  you  don't  understand,"  he  returned  with  sudden 
bitterness;  and  on  his  lips  the  charge  of  incomprehension 
seemed  an  offense  to  her. 

"I  don't  want  to — about  such  things !" 

He  answered  almost  harshly:  "Don't  be  afraid  .  .  . 
you  never  will  ..."  and  for  an  instant  they  faced  each 
other  like  enemies.  Then  the  tears  swelled  in  her  throat 
at  his  reproach. 

"You  mean  I  don't  feel  things — I'm  too  hard  ?" 

"No :  you're  too  high  .  .  .  too  fine  .  .  .  such  things 
are  too  far  from  you." 

He  paused,  as  if  conscious  of  the  futility  of  going  on 
with  whatever  he  had  meant  to  say,  and  again,  for  a 
short  space,  they  confronted  each  other,  no  longer  as 
enemies — so  it  seemed  to  her — but  as  beings  of  differ 
ent  language  who  had  forgotten  the  few  words  they  had 
learned  of  each  other's  speech. 

Darrow  broke  the  silence.  "It's  best,  on  all  accounts, 
that  I  should  stay  till  tomorrow ;  but  I  needn't  intrude  on 
you;  we  needn't  meet  again  alone.  I  only  want  to  be 
sure  I  know  your  wishes."  He  spoke  the  short  sen 
tences  in  a  level  voice,  as  though  he  were  summing  up 
the  results  of  a  business  conference. 

Anna  looked  at  him  vaguely.    "My  wishes  ?" 

[295] 


THE     REEF 

"As  to  Owen " 

At  that  she  started.    "They  must  never  meet  again !" 

"It's  not  likely  they  will.  What  I  meant  was,  that 
it  depends  on  you  to  spare  him  ..." 

She  answered  steadily:  "He  shall  never  know,"  and 
after  another  interval  Darrow  said:  "This  is  good-bye, 
then." 

At  the  word  she  seemed  to  understand  for  the  first 
time  whither  the  flying  moments  had  been  leading  them. 
Resentment  and  indignation  died  down,  and  all  her 
consciousness  resolved  itself  into  the  mere  visual  sense 
that  he  was  there  before  her,  near  enough  for  her  to  lift 
her  hand  and  touch  him,  and  that  in  another  instant  the 
place  where  he  stood  would  be  empty. 

She  felt  a  mortal  weakness,  a  craven  impulse  to  cry 
out  to  him  to  stay,  a  longing  to  throw*  herself  into  his 
arms,  and  take  refuge  there  from  the  unendurable  an 
guish  he  had  caused  her.  Then  the  vision  called  up 
another  thought :  "I  shall  never  know  what  that  girl  has 
known  ..."  and  the  recoil  of  pride  flung  her  back  on 
the  sharp  edges  of  her  anguish. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  in  dread  lest  he  should  read 
her  face ;  and  she  stood  motionless,  her  head  high,  while 
he  walked  to  the  door  and  went  out. 


BOOK    V 


BOOK    V 

XXX 

* 

ANNA  LEATH,  three  days  later,  sat  in  Miss 
Painter's  drawing-room  in  the  rue  de  Matignon. 

Coming  up  precipitately  that  morning  from  the  coun 
try,  she  had  reached  Paris  at  one  o'clock  and  Miss 
Painter's  landing  some  ten  minutes  later.  Miss  Painter's 
mouldy  little  man-servant,  dissembling  a  napkin  under 
his  arm,  had  mildly  attempted  to  oppose  her  entrance; 
but  Anna,  insisting,  had  gone  straight  to  the  dining- 
room  and  surprised  her  friend — who  ate  as  furtively  as 
certain  animals — over  a  strange  meal  of  cold  mutton 
and  lemonade.  Ignoring  the  embarrassment  she  caused, 
she  had  set  forth  the  object  of  her  journey,  and  Miss 
Painter,  always  hatted  and  booted  for  action,  had  im 
mediately  hastened  out,  leaving  her  to  the  solitude  of 
the  bare  fireless  drawing-room  with  its  eternal  slip-covers 
and  "bowed"  shutters. 

In  this  inhospitable  obscurity  Anna  had  sat  alone  for 
close  upon  two  hours.  Both  obscurity  and  solitude  were 
acceptable  to  her,  and  impatient  as  she  was  to  hear  the 
result  of  the  errand  on  which  she  had  despatched  her 
hostess,  she  desired  still  more  to  be  alone.  During  her 
long  meditation  in  a  white-swathed  chair  before  the  muf- 
20  [  299  ] 


THE     REEF 

fled  hearth  she  had  been  able  for  the  first  time  to  clear 
a  way  through  the  darkness  and  confusion  of  her 
thoughts.  The  way  did  not  go  far,  and  her  attempt  to 
trace  it  was  as  weak  and  spasmodic  as  a  convalescent's 
first  efforts  to  pick  up  the  thread  of  living.  She  seemed 
to  herself  like  some  one  struggling  to  rise  from  a  long 
sickness  of  which  it  would  have  been  so  much  easier 
to  die.  At  Givre  she  had  fallen  into  a  kind  of  torpor, 
a  deadness  of  soul  traversed  by  wild  flashes  of  pain ; 
but  whether  she  suffered  or  whether  she  was  numb,  she 
seemed  equally  remote  from  her  real  living  and  doing  self. 

It  was  only  the  discovery — that  very  morning — oi; 
Owen's  unannounced  departure  for  Paris  that  had  caught 
her  out  of  her  dream  and  forced  her  back  to  action. 
The  dread  of  what  this  flight  might  imply,  and  of  the 
consequences  that  might  result  from  it,  had  roused  her  to 
the  sense  of  her  responsibility,  and  from  the  moment 
when  she  had  resolved  to  follow  her  step-son,  and  had 
made  her  rapid  preparations  for  pursuit,  her  mind  had 
begun  to  work  again,  feverishly,  fitfully,  but  still  with 
something  of  its  normal  order.  In  the  train  she  had  been 
too  agitated,  too  preoccupied  with  what  might  next  await 
her,  to  give  her  thoughts  to  anything  but  the  turning  over 
of  dread  alternatives;  but  Miss  Painter's  impervious- 
ness  had  steadied  her,  and  while  she  waited  for  the  sound 
of  the  latch-key  she  resolutely  returned  upon  herself. 

With  respect  to  her  outward  course  she  could  at  least 
tell  herself  that  she  had  held  to  her  purpose.  She  had, 
as  people  said,  "kept  up"  during  the  twenty-four  hours 
preceding  George  Darrow's  departure ;  had  gone  with 
a  calm  face  about  her  usual  business,  and  even  contrived 

[300] 


THE     REEF 

not  too  obviously  to  avoid  him.  Then,  the  next  day 
before  dawn,  from  behind  the  closed  shutters  where  she 
had  kept  for  half  the  night  her  dry-eyed  vigil,  she  had 
heard  him  drive  off  to  the  train  which  brought  its  pas 
sengers  to  Paris  in  time  for  the  Calais  express. 

The  fact  of  his  taking  that  train,  of  his  travelling  so 
straight  and  far  away  from  her,  gave  to  what  had  hap 
pened  the  implacable  outline  of  reality.  He  was  gone; 
he  would  not  come  back;  and  her  life  had  ended  just  as 
she  had  dreamed  it  was  beginning.  She  had  no  doubt, 
at  first,  as  to  the  absolute  inevitability  of  this  conclu 
sion.  The  man  who  had  driven  away  from  her  house 
in  the  autumn  dawn  was  not  the  man  she  had  loved; 
he  was  a  stranger  with  whom  she  had  not  a  single 
thought  in  common.  It  was  terrible,  indeed,  that  he  wore 
the  face  and  spoke  in  the  voice  of  her  friend,  and  that, 
as  long  as  he  was  under  one  roof  with  her,  the  mere  way 
in  which  he  moved  and  looked  could  bridge  at  a  stroke 
the  gulf  between  them.  That,  no  doubt,  was  the  fault  of 
her  exaggerated  sensibility  to  outward  things:  she  was 
frightened  to  see  how  it  enslaved  her.  A  day  or  two  be 
fore  she  had  supposed  the  sense  of  honour  was  her  deep 
est  sentiment:  if  she  had  smiled  at  the  conventions  of 
others  it  was  because  they  were  too  trivial,  not  because 
they  were  too  grave.  There  were  certain  dishonours 
with  which  she  had  never  dreamed  that  any  pact  could 
be  made :  she  had  had  an  incorruptible  passion  for  good 
faith  and  fairness. 

She  had  supposed  that,  once  Darrow  was  gone,  once 
she  was  safe  from  the  danger  of  seeing  and  hearing  him, 
this  high  devotion  would  sustain  her.  She  had  believed 

[301] 


THE     REEF 

it  would  be  possible  to  separate  the  image  of  the  man  she 
had  thought  him  from  that  of  the  man  he  was.  She  had 
even  foreseen  the  hour  when  she  might  raise  a  mournful 
shrine  to  the  memory  of  the  Darrow  she  had  loved,  with 
out  fear  that  his  double's  shadow  would  desecrate  it.  But 
now  she  had  begun  to  understand  that  the  two  men  were 
really  one.  The  Darrow  she  worshipped  was  inseparable 
from  the  Darrow  she  abhorred;  and  the  inevitable  con 
clusion  was  that  both  must  go,  and  she  be  left  in  the 
desert  of  a  sorrow  without  memories  .  .  . 

But  if  the  future  was  thus  void,  the  present  was  all  too 
full.  Never  had  blow  more  complex  repercussions ;  and 
to  remember  Owen  was  to  cease  to  think  of  herself. 
What  impulse,  what  apprehension,  had  sent  him  suddenly 
to  Paris  ?  And  why  had  he  thought  it  needful  to  conceal 
his  going  from  her?  When  Sophy  Viner  had  left,  it 
had  been  with  the  understanding  that  he  was  to  await  her 
summons ;  and  it  seemed  improbable  that  he  would  break 
his  pledge,  and  seek  her  without  leave,  unless  his  lover's 
intuition  had  warned  him  of  some  fresh  danger.  Anna 
recalled  how  quickly  he  had  read  the  alarm  in  her  face 
when  he  had  rushed  back  to  her  sitting-room  with  the 
news  that  Miss  Viner  had  promised  to  see  him  again  in 
Paris.  To  be  so  promptly  roused,  his  suspicions  must 
have  been  but  half-asleep ;  and  since  then,  no  doubt,  if  she 
and  Darrow  had  dissembled,  so  had  he.  To  her  proud 
directness  it  was  degrading  to  think  that  they  had  been 
living  together  like  enemies  who  spy  upon  each  other's 
movements:  she  felt  a  desperate  longing  for  the  days 
which  had  seemed  so  dull  and  narrow,  but  in  which  she 
had  walked  with  her  head  high  and  her  eyes  unguarded. 

[302] 


THE     REEF 

She  had  come  up  to  Paris  hardly  knowing  what  peril 
she  feared,  and  still  less  how  she  could  avert  it.  If  Owen 
meant  to  see  Miss  Viner — and  what  other  object  could  he 
have  ? — they  must  already  be  together,  and  it  was  too  late 
to  interfere.  It  had  indeed  occurred  to  Anna  that 
Paris  might  not  be  his  objective  point:  that  his  real  pur 
pose  in  leaving  Givre  without  her  knowledge  had  been  to 
follow  Darrow  to  London  and  exact  the  truth  of  him. 
But  even  to  her  alarmed  imagination  this  seemed  improb 
able.  She  and  Darrow,  to  the  last,  had  kept  up  so  com 
plete  a  feint  of  harmony  that,  whatever  Owen  had  sur 
mised,  he  could  scarcely  have  risked  acting  on  his  sus 
picions.  If  he  still  felt  the  need  of  an  explanation,  it  was 
almost  certainly  of  Sophy  Viner  that  he  would  ask  it ;  and 
it  was  in  quest  of  Sophy  Viner  that  Anna  had  despatched 
Miss  Painter. 

She  had  found  a  blessed  refuge  from  her  perplexities  in 
the  stolid  Adelaide's  unawareness.  One  could  so  abso 
lutely  count  on  Miss  Painter's  guessing  no  more  than  one 
chose,  and  yet  acting  astutely  on  such  hints  as  one  vouch 
safed  her!  She  was  like  a  well-trained  retriever  whose 
interest  in  his  prey  ceases  when  he  lays  it  at  his  master's 
feet.  Anna,  on  arriving,  had  explained  that  Owen's  un 
announced  flight  had  *nade  her  fear  some  fresh  misun 
derstanding  between  himself  and  Miss  Viner.  In  the 
interests  of  peace  she  had  thought  it  best  to  follow  him ; 
but  she  hastily  added  that  she  did  not  wish  to  see 
Sophy,  but  only,  if  possible,  to  learn  from  her  where 
Owen  was.  With  these  brief  instructions  Miss  Painter 
had  started  out;  but  she  was  a  woman  of  many  occupa 
tions,  and  had  given  her  visitor  to  understand  that  be- 

[303] 


THE     REEF 

fore  returning  she  should  have  to  call  on  a  friend  who 
had  just  arrived  from  Boston,  and  afterward  despatch  to 
another  exiled  compatriot  a  supply  of  cranberries  and 
brandied  peaches  from  the  American  grocery  in  the 
Champs  Elysees. 

Gradually,  as  the  moments  passed,  Anna  began  to  feel 
the  reaction  which,  in  moments  of  extreme  nervous  ten 
sion,  follows  on  any  effort  of  the  will.  She  seemed  to 
have  gone  as  far  as  her  courage  would  carry  her,  and  she 
shrank  more  and  more  from  the  thought  of  Miss 
Painter's  return,  since  whatever  information  the  latter 
brought  would  necessitate  some  fresh  decision.  What 
should  she  say  to  Owen  if  she  found  him?  What  could 
she  say  that  should  not  betray  the  one  thing  she  would 
give  her  life  to  hide  from  him  ?  "Give  her  life" — how  the 
phrase  derided  her !  It  was  a  gift  she  would  not  have  be 
stowed  on  her  worst  enemy.  She  would  not  have  had 
Sophy  Viner  live  the  hours  she  was  living  now  .  .  . 

She  tried  again  to  look  steadily  and  calmly  at  the  pic 
ture  that  the  image  of  the  girl  evoked.  She  had  an  idea 
that  she  ought  to  accustom  herself  to  its  contemplation. 
If  life  was  like  that,  why  the  sooner  one  got  used  to 
it  the  better  .  .  .  But  no!  Life  was  not  like  that. 
Her  adventure  was  a  hideous  accident.  She  dreaded 
above  all  the  temptation  to  generalise  from  her  own 
case,  to  doubt  the  high  things  she  had  lived  by  and 
seek  a  cheap  solace  in  belittling  what  fate  had  refused 
her.  There  was  such  love  as  she  had  dreamed,  and  she 
hneant  to  go  on  believing  in  it,  and  cherishing  the  thought 
that  she  was  worthy  of  it.  What  had  happened  to  her 
Was  grotesque  and  mean  and  miserable;  but  she  herself 

[304] 


THE     REEF 

was  none  of  these  things,  and  never,  never  would  she 
make  of  herself  the  mock  that  fate  had  made  of  her  .  .  . 
She  could  not,  as  yet,  bear  to  think  deliberately  of  Dar- 
row;  but  she  kept  on  repeating  to  herself  "By  and  bye 
that  will  come  too."  Even  now  she  was  determined  not 
to  let  his  image  be  distorted  by  her  suffering.  As  soon 
as  she  could,  she  would  try  to  single  out  for  remem 
brance  the  individual  things  she  had  liked  in  him  before 
she  had  loved  him  altogether.  No  "spiritual  exercise"  de 
vised  by  the  discipline  of  piety  could  have  been  more  tor 
turing;  but  its  very  cruelty  attracted  her.  She  wanted 
to  wear  herself  out  with  new  pains  .  .  . 


XXXI 

THE  sound  of  Miss  Painter's  latch-key  made  her 
start.  She  was  still  a  bundle  of  quivering  fears 
to  whom  each  coming  moment  seemed  a  menace. 

There  was  a  slight  interval,  and  a  sound  of  voices  in 
the  hall;  then  Miss  Painter's  vigorous  hand  was  on  the 
door. 

Anna  stood  up  as  she  came  in.    "You've  found  him?" 

"I've  found  Sophy." 

"And  Owen  ? — has  she  seen  him  ?    Is  he  here  ?" 

"She's  here :  in  the  hall.    She  wants  to  speak  to  you." 

"Here — now?"     Anna  found  no  voice  for  more. 

"She  drove  back  with  me,"  Miss  Painter  continued  in 
the  tone  of  impartial  narrative.  "The  cabman  was  im 
pertinent.  I've  got  his  number."  She  fumbled  in  a 
stout  black  reticule. 

[305] 


THE     REEF 

"Oh,  I  can't — "  broke  from  Anna;  but  she  collected 
herself,  remembering  that  to  betray  her  unwillingness 
to  see  the  girl  was  to  risk  revealing  much  more. 

"She  thought  you  might  be  too  tired  to  see  her:  she 
wouldn't  come  in  till  I'd  found  out." 

Anna  drew  a  quick  breath.  An  instant's  thought  had 
told  her  that  Sophy  Viner  would  hardly  have  taken  such 
a  step  unless  something  more  important  had  happened. 
"Ask  her  to  come,  please,"  she  said. 

Miss  Painter,  from  the  threshold,  turned  back  to  an 
nounce  her  intention  of  going  immediately  to  the  police 
station  to  report  the  cabman's  delinquency;  then  she 
passed  out,  and  Sophy  Viner  entered. 

The  look  in  the  girl's  face  showed  that  she  had  indeed 
come  unwillingly;  yet  she  seemed  animated  by  an  eager 
resoluteness  that  made  Anna  ashamed  of  her  tremors. 
For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  as 
if  the  thoughts  between  them  were  packed  too  thick 
for  speech;  then  Anna  said,  in  a  voice  from  which  she 
strove  to  take  the  edge  of  hardness :  "You  know  where 
Owen  is,  Miss  Painter  tells  me." 

"Yes ;  that  was  my  reason  for  asking  you  to  see  me." 
Sophy  spoke  simply,  without  constraint  or  hesitation. 

"I  thought  he'd  promised  you — "  Anna  interposed. 

"He  did;  but  he  broke  his  promise.  That's  what  I 
thought  I  ought  to  tell  you." 

"Thank  you."  Anna  went  on  tentatively:  "He  left 
Givre  this  morning  without  a  word.  I  followed  him  be 
cause  I  was  afraid  .  .  .  " 

She  broke  off  again  and  the  girl  took  up  her  phrase. 
""You  were  afraid  he'd  guessed?  He  has  .  .  .  " 

[306] 


THE     REEF 

"What  do  you  mean — guessed  what?" 

"That  you  know  something  he  doesn't  .  .  .  something 
that  made  you  glad  to  have  me  go." 

"Oh — "  Anna  moaned.  If  she  had  wanted  more  pain 
she  had  it  now.  ''He's  told  you  this?"  she  faltered. 

"He  hasn't  told  me,  because  I  haven't  seen  him.  I  kept 
him  off — I  made  Mrs.  Farlow  get  rid  of  him.  But  he's 
written  me  what  he  came  to  say ;  and  that  was  it." 

"Oh,  poor  Owen!"  broke  from  Anna.  Through  all 
the  intricacies  of  her  suffering  she  felt  the  separate  pang 
of  his. 

"And  I  want  to  ask  you,"  the  girl  continued,  "to 
let  me  see  him;  for  of  course,"  she  added  in  the  same 
strange  voice  of  energy,  "I  wouldn't  unless  you  con 
sented." 

"To  see  him?"  Anna  tried  to  gather  together  her 
startled  thoughts.  "What  use  would  it  be  ?  What  could 
you  tell  him?" 

"I  want  to  tell  him  the  truth,"  said  Sophy  Viner. 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other,  and  a  burning 
blush  rose  to  Anna's  forehead.  "I  don't  understand," 
she  faltered. 

Sophy  waited  a  moment ;  then  she  lowered  her  voice  to 
say:  "I  don't  want  him  to  think  worse  of  me  than  he 
need  ..." 

"Worse?" 

"Yes — to  think  such  things  as  you're  thinking  now 
...  I  want  him  to  know  exactly  what  happened  .  .  . 
then  I  want  to  bid  him  good-bye." 

Anna  tried  to  clear  a  way  through  her  own  wonder  and 
confusion.  She  felt  herself  obscurely  moved. 

[307] 


THE     REEF 

"Wouldn't  it  be  worse  for  him 


"To  hear  the  truth?  It  would  be  better,  at  any  rate, 
for  you  and  Mr.  Darrow." 

At  the  sound  of  the  name  Anna  lifted  her  head  quickly. 
"I've  only  my  step-son  to  consider !" 

The  girl  threw  a  startled  look  at  her.  "You  don't 
mean — you're  not  going  to  give  him  up  ?" 

Anna  felt  her  lips  harden.  "I  don't  think  it's  of  any 
use  to  talk  of  that." 

"Oh,  I  know !  It's  my  fault  for  not  knowing  how  to 
say  what  I  want  you  to  hear.  Your  words  are  differ 
ent;  you  know  how  to  choose  them.  Mine  offend  you 
.  .  .  and  the  dread  of  it  makes  me  blunder.  That's 
why,  the  other  day,  I  couldn't  say  anything  .  .  .  couldn't 
make  things  clear  to  you.  But  now  I  mast,  even  if  you 
hate  it!"  She  drew  a  step  nearer,  her  slender  figure 
swayed  forward  in  a  passion  of  entreaty.  "Do  listen  to 
me!  What  you've  said  is  dreadful.  How  can  you 
speak  of  him  in  that  voice?  Don't  you  see  that  I  went 
away  so  that  he  shouldn't  have  to  lose  you  ?" 

Anna  looked  at  her  coldly.  "Are  you  speaking  of  Mr. 
Darrow?  I  don't  know  why  you  think  your  going  or 
staying1  can  in  any  way  affect  our  relations." 

"You  mean  that  you  have  given  him  up — because  of 
me  ?  Oh,  how  could  you  ?  You  can't  really  love  him ! — 
And  yet,"  the  girl  suddenly  added,  "you  must,  or  you'd 
be  more  sorry  for  me !" 

"I'm  very  sorry  for  you,"  Anna  said,  feeling  as  if  the 
iron  band  about  her  heart  pressed  on  it  a  little  less  inex 
orably. 

"Then  why  won't  you  hear  me?  Why  won't  you  try 
[308] 


THE     REEF 

to  understand?  It's  all  so  different  from  what  you 
imagine !" 

"I've  never  judged  you." 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  myself.    He  loves  you !" 

"I  thought  you'd  come  to  speak  of  Owen." 

Sophy  Viner  seemed  not  to  hear  her.  "He's  never 
loved  any  one  else.  Even  those  few  days  ...  I  knew  it 
all  the  while  ...  he  never  cared  for  me." 

"Please  don't  say  any  more !"  Anna  said. 

"I  know  it  must  seem  strange  to  you  that  I  should  say 
so  much.  I  shock  you,  I  offend  you :  you  think  me  a 
creature  without  shame.  So  I  am — but  not  in  the  sense 
you  think!  I'm  not  ashamed  of  having  loved  him;  no; 
and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  telling  you  so.  It's  that  that 
justifies  me — and  him  too  .  .  .  Oh,  let  me  tell  you 
how  it  happened !  He  was  sorry  for  me :  he  saw  I  cared. 
I  knew  that  was  all  he  ever  felt.  I  could  see  he  was 
thinking  of  some  one  else.  I  knew  it  was  only  for  a 
week  .  .  .  He  never  said  a  word  to  mislead  me  ... 
I  wanted  to  be  happy  just  once — and  I  didn't  dream  of 
the  harm  I  might  be  doing  him !" 

Anna  could  not  speak.  She  hardly  knew,  as  yet,  what 
the  girl's  words  conveyed  to  her,  save  the  sense  of  their 
tragic  fervour;  but  she  was  conscious  of  being  in  the 
presence  of  an  intenser  passion  than  she  had  ever  felt. 

"I  am  sorry  for  you."  She  paused.  "But  why  do  you 
say  this  to  me  ?"  After  another  interval  she  exclaimed : 
"You'd  no  right  to  let  Owen  love  you." 

"No ;  that  was  wrong.  At  least  what's  happened  since 
has  made  it  so.  If  things  had  been  different  I  think  I 
could  have  made  Owen  happy.  You  were  all  so  good 

[309] 


THE     REEF 

to  me — I  wanted  so  to  stay  with  you !  I  suppose  you'll 
say  that  makes  it  worse :  my  daring  to  dream  I  had  the 
right  .  .  .  But  all  that  doesn't  matter  now.  I  won't  see 
Owen  unless  you're  willing.  I  should  have  liked  to  tell 
him  what  I've  tried  to  tell  you ;  but  you  must  know  bet 
ter;  you  feel  things  in  a  finer  way.  Only  you'll  have 
to  help  him  if  I  can't.  He  cares  a  great  deal  .  .  .  it's 
going  to  hurt  him  ..." 

Anna  trembled.    "Oh,  I  know !    What  can  I  do  ?" 

"You  can  go  straight  back  to  Givre — now,  at  once! 
So  that  Owen  shall  never  know  you've  followed  him." 
Sophy's  clasped  hands  reached  out  urgently.  "And  you 
can  send  for  Mr.  Darrow — bring  him  back.  Owen  must 
be  convinced  that  he's  mistaken,  and  nothing  else  will 
convince  him.  Afterward  I'll  find  a  pretext — oh,  I 
promise  you !  But  first  he  must  see  for  himself  that  noth 
ing's  changed  for  you." 

Anna  stood  motionless,  subdued  and  dominated.  The 
girl's  ardour  swept  her  like  a  wind. 

"Oh,  can't  I  move  you  ?  Some  day  you'll  know !" 
Sophy  pleaded,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

Anna  saw  them,  and  felt  a  fullness  in  her  throat. 
Again  the  band  about  her  heart  seemed  loosened.  She 
wanted  to  find  a  word,  but  could  not :  all  within  her  was 
too  dark  and  violent.  She  gave  the  girl  a  speechless 
look. 

"I  do  believe  you,"  she  said  suddenly ;  then  she  turned 
and  walked  out  of  the  room. 


THE     REEF 


XXXII 

SHE  drove  from  Miss  Painter's  to  her  own  apart 
ment.  The  maid-servant  who  had  it  in  charge  had 
been  apprised  of  her  coming,  and  had  opened  one  or  two 
of  the  rooms,  and  prepared  a  fire  in  her  bedroom.  Anna 
shut  herself  in,  refusing  the  woman's  ministrations.  She 
felt  cold  and  faint,  and  after  she  had  taken  off  her  hat 
and  cloak  she  knelt  down  by  the  fire  and  stretched  her 
hands  to  it. 

In  one  respect,  at  least,  it  was  clear  to  her  that  she 
would  do  well  to  follow  Sophy  Viner's  counsel.  It  had 
been  an  act  of  folly  to  follow  Owen,  and  her  first  busi 
ness  was  to  get  back  to  Givre  before  him.  But  the  only 
train  leaving  that  evening  was  a  slow  one,  which  did 
not  reach  Francheuil  till  midnight,  and  she  knew  that  her 
taking  it  would  excite  Madame  de  Chantelle's  wonder 
and  lead  to  interminable  talk.  She  had  come  up  to  Paris 
on  the  pretext  of  finding  a  new  governess  for  Efiie,  and 
the  natural  thing  was  to  defer  her  return  till  the  next 
morning.  She  knew  Owen  well  enough  to  be  sure  that 
he  would  make  another  attempt  to  see  Miss  Viner,  and 
failing  that,  would  write  again  and  await  her  answer: 
so  that  there  was  no  likelihood  of  his  reaching  Givre  till 
the  following  evening. 

Her  sense  of  relief  at  not  having  to  start  out  at  once 
showed  her  for  the  first  time  how  tired  she  was.  The 
bonne  had  suggested  a  cup  of  tea,  but  the  dread  of  having 
any  one  about  her  had  made  Anna  refuse,  and  she  had 


THE     REEF 

eaten  nothing  since  morning  but  a  sandwich  bought  at 
a  buffet.  She  was  too  tired  to  get  up,  but  stretching  out 
her  arm  she  drew  toward  her  the  arm-chair  which  stood 
beside  the  hearth  and  rested  her  head  against  its  cushions. 
Gradually  the  warmth  of  the  fire  stole  into  her  veins  and 
her  heaviness  of  soul  was  replaced  by  a  dreamy  buoyancy. 
She  seemed  to  be  seated  on  the  hearth  in  her  sitting-room 
at  Givre,  and  Darrow  was  beside  her,  in  the  chair  against 
which  she  leaned.  He  put  his  arms  about  her  shoulders 
and  drawing  her  head  back  looked  into  her  eyes.  "Of 
all  the  ways  you  do  your  hair,  that's  the  way  I  like  best/' 
he  said  .  .  . 

A  log  dropped,  and  she  sat  up  with  a  start.  There  was 
a  warmth  in  her  heart,  and  she  was  smiling.  Then  she 
looked  about  her,  and  saw  where  she  was,  and  the  glory 
fell.  She  hid  her  face  and  sobbed. 

Presently  she  perceived  that  it  was  growing  dark,  and 
getting  up  stiffly  she  began  to  undo  the  things  in  her  bag 
and  spread  them  on  the  dressing-table.  She  shrank  from 
lighting  the  lights,  and  groped  her  way  about,  trying  to 
find  what  she  needed.  She  seemed  immeasurably  far  off 
from  every  one,  and  most  of  all  from  herself.  It  was  as 
if  her  consciousness  had  been  transmitted  to  some 
stranger  whose  thoughts  and  gestures  were  indifferent 

to  her  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  shrill  tinkle,  and  with  a  beating 
heart  she  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  It  was 
the  telephone  in  her  dressing-room— a  call,  no  doubt, 
from  Adelaide  Painter.  Or  could  Owen  have  learned 
she  was  in  town?  The  thought  alarmed  her  and  she 
opened  the  door  and  stumbled  across  the  unlit  room  to 


THE     REEF 

the  instrument.     She  held  it  to  her  ear,  and  heard  Dar- 
row's  voice  pronounce  her  name. 

"Will  you  let  me  see  you  ?  I've  come  back — I  had  to 
come.  Miss  Painter  told  me  you  were  here." 

She  began  to  tremble,  and  feared  that  he  would  guess 
it  from  her  voice.  She  did  not  know  what  she  answered : 
she  heard  him  say :  "I  can't  hear."  She  called  "Yes !"  and 
laid  the  telephone  down,  and  caught  it  up  again — but  he 
was  gone.  She  wondered  if  her  "Yes"  had  reached  him. 

She  sat  in  her  chair  and  listened.  Why  had  she  said 
that  she  would  see  him?  What  did  she  mean  to  say  to 
him  when  he  came?  Now  and  then,  as  she  sat  there, 
the  sense  of  his  presence  enveloped  her  as  in  her  dream, 
and  she  shut  her  eyes  and  felt  his  arms  about  her.  Then 
she  woke  to  reality  and  shivered.  A  long  time  elapsed, 
and  at  length  she  said  to  herself :  "He  isn't  coming." 

The  door-bell  rang  as  she  said  it,  and  she  stood  up,  cold 
and  trembling.  She  thought:  "Can  he  imagine  there's 
any  use  in  coming?"  and  moved  forward  to  bid  the  serv 
ant  say  she  could  not  see  him. 

The  door  opened  and  she  saw  him  standing  in  the 
drawing-room.  The  room  was  cold  and  fireless,  and  a 
hard  glare  fell  from  the  wall-lights  on  the  shrouded  fur 
niture  and  the  white  slips  covering  the  curtains.  He 
looked  pale  and  stern,  with  a  frown  of  fatigue  between 
his  eyes ;  and  she  remembered  that  in  three  days  he  had 
travelled  from  Givre  to  London  and  back.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  all  that  had  befallen  her  should  have 
been  compressed  within  the  space  of  three  days ! 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  as  she  came  in. 

She  answered:  "It's  better,  I  suppose " 

[313] 


THE     REEF 

He  came  toward  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  She 
struggled  a  little,  afraid  of  yielding,  but  he  pressed  her  to 
him,  not  bending  to  her  but  holding  her  fast,  as  though  he 
had  found  her  after  a  long  search :  she  heard  his  hur 
ried  breathing.  It  seemed  to  come  from  her  own  breast, 
so  close  he  held  her;  and  it  was  she  who,  at  last,  lifted 
up  her  face  and  drew  down  his. 

She  freed  herself  and  went  and  sat  on  a  sofa  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  A  mirror  between  the  shrouded 
window-curtains  showed  her  crumpled  travelling  dress 
and  the  white  face  under  her  disordered  hair. 

She  found  her  voice,  and  asked  him  how  he  had  been 
able  to  leave  London.  He  answered  that  he  had  man 
aged — he'd  arranged  it;  and  she  saw  he  hardly  heard 
what  she  was  saying. 

"I  had  to  see  you,"  he  went  on,  and  moved  nearer,  sit 
ting  down  at  her  side. 

"Yes ;  we  must  think  of  Owen " 

"Oh,  Owen—!" 

Her  mind  had  flown  back  to  Sophy  Viner's  plea  that 
she  should  let  Darrow  return  to  Givre  in  order  that  Owen 
might  be  persuaded  of  the  folly  of  his  suspicions.  The 
suggestion  was  absurd,  of  course.  She  could  not  ask 
Darrow  to  lend  himself  to  such  a  fraud,  even  had  she 
had  the  inhuman  courage  to  play  her  part  in  it.  She 
was  suddenly  overwhelmed  by  the  futility  of  every  at 
tempt  to  reconstruct  her  ruined  world.  No,  it  was  use 
less;  and  since  it  was  useless,  every  moment  with  Dar 
row  was  pure  pain  .  .  . 

"I've  come  to  talk  of  myself,  not  of  Owen,"  she  heard 
him  saying.  "When  you  sent  me  away  the  other  day  I 

[314] 


THE     REEF 

understood  that  it  couldn't  be  otherwise — then.  But  it's 
not  possible  that  you  and  I  should  part  like  that.  If 
I'm  to  lose  you,  it  must  be  for  a  better  reason." 

"A  better  reason?" 

"Yes :  a  deeper  one.  One  that  means  a  fundamental 
disaccord  between  us.  This  one  doesn't — in  spite  of 
everything  it  doesn't.  That's  what  I  want  you  to  see, 
and  have  the  courage  to  acknowledge." 

"If  I  saw  it  I  should  have  the  courage !" 

"Yes:  courage  was  the  wrong  word.  You  have  that. 
That's  why  I'm  here." 

"But  I  don't  see  it,"  she  continued  sadly.  "So  it's  use 
less,  isn't  it? — and  so  cruel  ..."  He  was  about  to 
speak,  but  she  went  on:  "I  shall  never  understand  it — 
never!" 

He  looked  at  her.  "You  will  some  day :  you  were  made 
to  feel  everything " 

"I  should  have  thought  this  was  a  case  of  not  feel 
ing " 

"On  my  part,  you  mean?"  He  faced  her  resolutely. 
"Yes,  it  was :  to  my  shame  .  .  .  What  I  meant  was  that 
when  you've  lived  a  little  longer  you'll  see  what  complex 
blunderers  we  all  are:  how  we're  struck  blind  some 
times,  and  mad  sometimes — and  then,  when  our  sight 
and  our  senses  come  back,  how  we  have  to  set  to  work, 
and  build  up,  little  by  little,  bit  by  bit,  the  precious  things 
we'd  smashed  to  atoms  without  knowing  it.  Lifers  -just 
a  perpetual  piecing  together  of  broken  bits." 

She  looked  up  quickly.  "That's  what  I  feel :  that  you 
ought  to " 

He  stood  up,  interrupting  her  with  a  gesture.  "Oh, 
21  [  315  ] 


THE     REEF 

don't — don't  say  what  you're  going  to !  Men  don't  give 
their  lives  away  like  that.  If  you  won't  have  mine,  it's 
at  least  my  own,  to  do  the  best  I  can  with." 

"The  best  you  can — that's  what  I  mean!  How  can 
there  be  a  'best'  for  you  that's  made  of  some  one  else's 
worst?" 

He  sat  down  again  with  a  groan.  "I  don't  know! 
It  seemed  such  a  slight  thing — all  on  the  surface — and 
I've  gone  aground  on  it  because  it  was  on  the  surface. 
-I  see  the  horror  of  it  just  as  you  do.  But  I  see,  a  little 
more  clearly,  the  extent,  and  the  limits,  of  my  wrong. 
It's  not  as  black  as  you  imagine." 

She  lowered  her  voice  to  say :  "I  suppose  I  shall  never 
understand ;  but  she  seems  to  love  you  .  .  .  J: 

"There's  my  shame !  That  I  didn't  guess  it,  didn't  fly 
from  it.  You  say  you'll  never  understand:  but  why 
shouldn't  you?  Is  it  anything  to  be  proud  of,  to  know 
so  little  of  the  strings  that  pull  us  ?  If  you  knew  a  little 
more,  I  could  tell  you  how  such  things  happen  without 
offending  you;  and  perhaps  you'd  listen  without  con 
demning  me." 

"I  don't  condemn  you."  She  was  dizzy  with  struggling 
impulses.  She  longed  to  cry  out :  "I  do  understand !  I've 
understood  ever  since  you've  been  here!"  For  she  was 
aware,  in  her  own  bosom,  of  sensations  so  separate  from 
her  romantic  thoughts  of  him  that  she  saw  her  body  and 
soul  divided  against  themselves.  She  recalled  having 
read  somewhere  that  in  ancient  Rome  the  slaves  were  not 
allowed  to  wear  a  distinctive  dress  lest  they  should  recog 
nize  each  other  and  learn  their  numbers  and  their  power. 
So,  in  herself,  she  discerned  for  the  first  time  instincts 


THE     REEF 

and  desires,  which,  mute  and  unmarked,  had  gone  to  and 
fro  in  the  dim  passages  of  her  mind,  and  now  hailed  each 
other  with  a  cry  of  mutiny. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  think!"  she  broke  out. 
"You  say  you  didn't  know  she  loved  you.  But  you  know 
it  now.  Doesn't  that  show  you  how  you  can  put  the 
broken  bits  together?" 

"Can  you  seriously  think  it  would  be  doing  so  to  marry 
one  woman  while  I  care  for  another?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  ...  I  don't  know  ..."  The 
sense  of  her  weakness  made  her  try  to  harden  herself 
against  his  arguments. 

"You  do  know !  We've  often  talked  of  such  things : 
of  the  monstrousness  of  useless  sacrifices.  If  I'm  to  ex 
piate,  it's  not  in  that  way."  He  added  abruptly:  "It's 
in  having  to  say  this  to  you  now  .  .  .  " 

She  found  no  answer. 

Through  the  silent  apartment  they  heard  the  sudden 
peal  of  the  door-bell,  and  she  rose  to  her  feet.    "Owe 
she  instantly  exclaimed. 

"Is  Owen  in  Paris?" 

She  explained  in  a  rapid  undertone  what  she  had 
learned  from  Sophy  Viner. 

"Shall  I  leave  you  ?"  Darrow  asked. 

"Yes  ...  no  ..."  She  moved  to  the  dining-room 
door,  with  the  half-formed  purpose  of  making  him  pass 
out,  and  then  turned  back.  "It  may  be  Adelaide." 

They  heard  the  outer  door  open,  and  a  moment  later 
Owen  walked  into  the  room.  He  was  pale,  with  excited 
eyes :  as  they  fell  on  Darrow,  Anna  saw  his  start  of  won 
der.  He  made  a  slight  sign  of  recognition,  and  then 

[317] 


THE     REEF 

went  up  to  his  step-mother  with  an  air  of  exaggerated 
gaiety. 

"You  furtive  person !  I  ran  across  the  omniscient  Ade- 
:  laide  and  heard  from  her  that  you'd  rushed  up  suddenly 

and  secretly "  He  stood  between  Anna  and  Dar- 

row,  strained,  questioning,  dangerously  on  edge. 

"I  came  up  to  meet  Mr.  Darrow,"  Anna  answered. 
"His  leave's  been  prolonged — he's  going  back  with  me." 

The  words  seemed  to  have  uttered  themselves  without 
her  will,  yet  she  felt  a  great  sense  of  freedom  as  she 
spoke  them. 

The  hard  tension  of  Owen's  face  changed  to  incredu 
lous  surprise.  He  looked  at  Darrow. 

"The  merest  luck  ...  a  colleague  whose  wife  was 
ill  ...  I  came  straight  back,"  she  heard  the  latter  tran 
quilly  explaining.  His  self-command  helped  to  steady 
her,  and  she  smiled  at  Owen. 

"We'll  all  go  back  together  tomorrow  morning,"  she 
said  as  she  slipped  her  arm  through  his. 


XXXIII 

OWEN  LEATH  did  .not  go  back  with  his  step 
mother  to  Givre.    In  reply  to  her  suggestion  he 
announced  his  intention  of  staying  on  a  day  or  two 
longer  in  Paris. 

Anna  left  alone  by  the  first  train  the  next  morning. 
Darrow  was  to  follow  in  the  afternoon.  When  Owen 
had  left  them  the  evening  before,  Darrow  waited  a  mo 
ment  for  her  to  speak;  then,  as  she  said  nothing,  he 


THE     REEF 

asked  her  if  she  really  wished  him  to  return  to  Givre. 
She  made  a  mute  sign  of  assent,  and  he  added :  "For  you 
know  that,  much  as  Fm  ready  to  do  for  Owen,  I  can't 
do  that  for  him — I  can't  go  back  to  be  sent  away  again." 

"No— no!" 

He  came  nearer,  and  looked  at  her,  and  she  went  to 
him.  All  her  fears  seemed  to  fall  from  her  as  he  held 
her.  It  was  a  different  feeling  from  any  she  had  known 
before:  confused  and  turbid,  as  if  secret  shames  and 
rancours  stirred  in  it,  yet  richer,  deeper,  more  enslaving. 
She  leaned  her  head  back  and  shut  her  eyes  beneath  his 
kisses.  She  knew  now  that  she  could  never  give  him  up. 

Nevertheless  she  asked  him,  the  next  morning,  to  let 
her  go  back  alone  to  Givre.  She  wanted  time  to  think. 
She  was  convinced  that  what  had  happened  was  inevi 
table,  that  she  and  Darrow  belonged  to  each  other,  and 
that  he  was  right  in  saying  no  past  folly  could  ever  put 
them  asunder.  If  there  was  a  shade  of  difference  in  her 
feeling  for  him  it  was  that  of  an  added  intensity.  She 
felt  restless,  insecure  out  of  his  sight :  she  had  a  sense  of 
incompleteness,  of  passionate  dependence,  that  was  some 
how  at  variance  with  her  own  conception  of  her  character. 

It  was  partly  the  consciousness  of  this  change  in  her 
self  that  made  her  want  to  be  alone.  The  solitude  of 
her  inner  life  had  given  her  the  habit  of  these  hours  of 
self-examination,  and  she  needed  them  as  she  needed  her 
morning  plunge  into  cold  water. 

During  the  journey  she  tried  to  review  what  had 
happened  in  the  light  of  her  new  decision  and  of  her 
sudden  relief  from  pain.  She  seemed  to  herself  to  have 
passed  through  some  fiery  initiation  from  which  she  had 

[319] 


THE     REEF 

emerged  seared  and  quivering,  but  clutching  to  her  breast 
a  magic  talisman.  Sophy  Viner  had  cried  out  to  her: 
"Some  day  you'll  know !"  and  Darrow  had  used  the  same 
words.  They  meant,  she  supposed,  that  when  she  had 
explored  the  intricacies  and  darknesses  of  her  own  heart 
her  judgment  of  others  would  be  less  absolute.  Well, 
she  knew  now — knew  weaknesses  and  strengths  she  had 
not  dreamed  of,  and  the  deep  discord  and  still  deeper 
complicities  between  what  thought  in  her  and  what 
blindly  wanted  .  .  . 

Her  mind  turned  anxiously  to  Owen.  At  least  the 
blow  that  was  to  fall  on  him  would  not  seem  to  have  been 
inflicted  by  her  hand.  He  would  be  left  with  the  impres 
sion  that  his  breach  with  Sophy  Viner  was  due  to  one 
of  the  ordinary  causes  of  such  disruptions:  though  he 
must  lose  her,  his  memory  of  her  would  not  be  poisoned. 
Anna  never  for  a  moment  permitted  herself  the  delusion 
that  she  had  renewed  her  promise  to  Darrow  in  order  to 
spare  her  step-son  this  last  refinement  of  misery.  She 
knew  she  had  been  prompted  by  the  irresistible  impulse 
to  hold  fast  to  what  was  most  precious  to  her,  and  that 
Owen's  arrival  on  the  scene  had  been  the  pretext  for  her 
decision,  and  not  its  cause;  yet  she  felt  herself  fortified 
by  the  thought  of  what  she  had  spared  him.  It  was  as 
though  a  star  she  had  been  used  to  follow  had  shed  its 
familiar  ray  on  ways  unknown  to  her. 

All  through  these  meditations  ran  the  undercurrent  of 
an  absolute  trust  in  Sophy  Viner.  She  thought  of  the  girl 
with  a  mingling  of  antipathy  and  confidence.  It  was  hu 
miliating  to  her  pride  to  recognize  kindred  impulses  in 
a  character  which  she  would  have  liked  to  feel  completely 

[320] 


THE     REEF 

alien  to  her.  But  what  indeed  was  the  girl  really  like? 
She  seemed  to  have  no  scruples  and  a  thousand  delica 
cies.  She  had  given  herself  to  Darrow,  and  concealed  the 
episode  from  Owen  Leath,  with  no  more  apparent  sense 
of  debasement  than  the  vulgarest  of  adventuresses;  yet 
she  had  instantly  obeyed  the  voice  of  her  heart  when  it 
bade  her  part  from  the  one  and  serve  the  other. 

Anna  tried  to  picture  what  the  girl's  life  must  have 
been :  what  experiences,  what  initiations,  had  formed  her. 
But  her  own  training  had  been  too  different :  there  were 
veils  she  could  not  lift.  She  looked  back  at  her  married 
life,  and  its  colourless  uniformity  took  on  an  air  of  high 
restraint  and  order.  Was  it  because  she  had  been  so 
incurious  that  it  had  worn  that  look  to  her?  It  struck 
her  with  amazement  that  she  had  never  given  a  thought 
to  her  husband's  past,  or  wondered  what  he  did  and 
where  he  went  when  he  was  away  from  her.  If  she  had 
been  asked  what  she  supposed  he  thought  about  when 
they  were  apart,  she  would  instantly  have  answered :  his 
snuff-boxes.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  might 
have  passions,  interests,  preoccupations  of  which  she  was 
absolutely  ignorant.  Yet  he  went  up  to  Paris  rather 
regularly:  ostensibly  to  attend  sales  and  exhibitions,  or 
to  confer  with  dealers  and  collectors.  She  tried  to  pic 
ture  him,  straight,  trim,  beautifully  brushed  and  var 
nished,  walking  furtively  down  a  quiet  street,  and  looking 
about  him  before  he  slipped  into  a  doorway.  She  under 
stood  now  that  she  had  been  cold  to  him:  what  more 
likely  than  that  he  had  sought  compensations?  All  men 
were  like  that,  she  supposed — no  doubt  her  simplicity  had 
amused  him. 


THE     REEF 

In  the  act  of  transposing  Fraser  Leath  into  a  Don 
Juan  she  was  pulled  up  by  the  ironic  perception  that  she 
was  simply  trying  to  justify  Darrow.  She  wanted  to 
think  that  all  men  were  "like  that"  because  Darrow  was 
"like  that":  she  wanted  to  justify  her  acceptance  of  the 
fact  by  persuading  herself  that  only  through  such  con 
cessions  could  women  like  herself  hope  to  keep  what  they 
could  not  give  up.  And  suddenly  she  was  filled  with 
anger  at  her  blindness,  and  then  at  her  disastrous  at 
tempt  to  see.  Why  had  she  forced  the  truth  out  of  Dar 
row?  If  only  she  had  held  her  tongue  nothing  need 
ever  have  been  known.  Sophy  Viner  would  have  broken 
her  engagement,  Owen  would  have  been  sent  around  the 
world,  and  her  own  dream  would  have  been  unshattered. 
But  she  had  probed,  insisted,  cross-examined,  not  rested 
till  she  had  dragged  the  secret  to  the  light.  She  was  one 
of  the  luckless  women  who  always  have  the  wrong  au 
dacities,  and  who  always  know  it  ... 

Was  it  she,  Anna  Leath,  who  was  picturing  herself  to 
herself  in  that  way?  She  recoiled  from  her  thoughts 
as  if  with  a  sense  of  demoniac  possession,  and  there 
flashed  through  her  the  longing  to  return  to  her  old  state 
of  fearless  ignorance.  If  at  that  moment  she  could  have 
kept  Darrow  from  following  her  to  Givre  she  would 
have  done  so  ... 

But  he  came;  and  with  the  sight  of  him  the  turmoil 
fell  and  she  felt  herself  reassured,  rehabilitated.  He 
arrived  toward  dusk,  and  she  motored  to  Francheuil  to 
meet  him.  She  wanted  to  see  him  as  soon  as  possible, 
for  she  had  divined,  through  the  new  insight  that  was 
in  her,  that  only  his  presence  could  restore  her  to  a 

[322] 


THE     REEF 

normal  view  of  things.  In  the  motor,  as  they  left  the 
town  and  turned  into  the  high-road,  he  lifted  her  hand 
and  kissed  it,  and  she  leaned  against  him,  and  felt  the 
currents  flow  between  them.  She  was  grateful  to  him 
for  not  saying  anything,  and  for  not  expecting  her  to 
speak.  She  said  to  herself :  "He  never  makes  a  mistake — 
he  always  knows  what  to  do" ;  and  then  she  thought  with 
a  start  that  it  was  doubtless  because  he  had  so  often 
been  in  such  situations.  The  idea  that  his  tact  was  a 
kind  of  professional  expertness  rilled  her  with  repug 
nance,  and  insensibly  she  drew  away  from  him.  He  made 
no  motion  to  bring  her  nearer,  and  she  instantly  thought 
that  that  was  calculated  too.  She  sat- beside  him  in  frozen 
misery,  wondering  whether,  henceforth,  she  would  meas 
ure  in  this  way  his  every  look  and  gesture.  Neither  of 
them  spoke  again  till  the  motor  turned  under  the  dark 
arch  of  the  avenue,  and  they  saw  the  lights  of  Givre 
twinkling  at  its  end.  Then  Darrow  laid  his  hand  on  hers 
and  said:  "I  know,  dear — "  and  the  hardness  in  her 
melted.  "He's  suffering  as  I  am,"  she  thought;  and  for 
a  moment  the  baleful  fact  between  them  seemed  to  draw 
them  closer  instead  of  walling  them  up  in  their  separate 
wretchedness. 

It  was  wonderful  to  be  once  more  re-entering  the  doors 
of  Givre  with  him,  and  as  the  old  house  received  them 
into  its  mellow  silence  she  had  again  the  sense  of  pass 
ing  out  of  a  dreadful  dream  into  the  reassurance  of 
kindly  and  familiar  things.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that 
these  quiet  rooms,  so  full  of  the  slowly-distilled  accumu 
lations  of  a  fastidious  taste,  should  have  been  the  scene 
of  tragic  dissensions.  The  memory  of  them  seemed  to 

1 323  ] 


THE     REEF 

be  shut  out  into  the  night  with  the  closing  and  barring 
of  its  doors. 

At  the  tea-table  in  the  oak-room  they  found  Madame 
de  Chantelle  and  Effie.  The  little  girl,  catching  sight  of 
Darrow,  raced  down  the  drawing-rooms  to  meet  him, 
and  returned  in  triumph  on  his  shoulder.  Anna  looked  at 
them  with  a  smile.  Effie,  for  all  her  graces,  was  chary 
of  such  favours,  and  her  mother  knew  that  in  according 
them  to  Darrow  she  had  admitted  him  to  the  circle 
where  Owen  had  hitherto  ruled. 

Over  the  tea-table  Darrow  gave  Madame  de  Chantelle 
the  explanation  of  his  sudden  return  from  England.  On 
reaching  London,  he  told  her,  he  had  found  that  the  sec- 
retarv  e  was  to  have  replaced  was  detained  there  by 
the  illness  of  his  wife.  The  Ambassador,  knowing  Dar- 
row's  urgent  reasons  for  wishing  to  be  in  France,  had 
immediately  proposed  his  going  back,  and  awaiting  at 
Givre  the  summons  to  relieve  his  colleague ;  and  he  had 
jumped  into  the  first  train,  without  even  waiting  to  tele 
graph  the  news  of  his  release.  He  spoke  naturally,  easily, 
in  his  usual  quiet  voice,  taking  his  tea  from  Effie,  helping 
himself  to  the  toast  she  handed,  and  stooping  now  and 
then  to  stroke  the  dozing  terrier.  And  suddenly,  as  Anna 
listened  to  his  explanation,  she  asked  herself  if  it  were 
true. 

The  question,  of  course,  was  absurd.  There  was  no 
possible  reason  why  he  should  invent  a  false  account  of 
his  return,  and  every  probability  that  the  version  he  gave 
was  the  real  one.  But  he  had  looked  and  spoken  in  the 
same  way  when  he  had  answered  her  probing  questions 
about  Sophy  Viner,  and  she  reflected  with  a  chill  of  fear 


THE     REEF 

that  she  would  never  again  know  if  he  were  speaking 
the  truth  or  not.  SHe  was  sure  he  loved  her,  and  she  did 
not  fear  his  insincerity  as  much  as  her  own  distrust  of 
him.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  must  cof- 
rupt  the  very  source  of  love;  then  she  said  to  herself: 
"By  and  bye,  when  I  am  altogether  his,  we  shall  be  so 
near  each  other  that  there  will  be  no  room  for  any  doubts 
between  us."  But  the  doubts  were  there  now,  one  mo 
ment  lulled  to  quiescence,  the  next  more  torturingly  alert. 
When  the  nurse  appeared  to  summon  Effie,  the  little 
girl,  after  kissing  her  grandmother,  entrenched  herself 
on  Darrow's  knee  with  the  imperious  demand  to  be  car 
ried  up  to  bed ;  and  Anna,  while  she  laughingly  protested, 
said  to  herself  with  a  pang:  "Can  I  give  her  a  father 
about  whom  I  think  such  things  ?" 

The  thought  of  Effie,  and  of  what  she  owed  to  Effie, 
had  been  the  fundamental  reason  for  her  delays  and  hesi 
tations  when  she  and  Darrow  had  come  together  again  in 
England.  Her  own  feeling  was  so  clear  that  but  for 
that  scruple  she  would  have  put  her  hand  in  his  at  once. 
But  till  she  had  seen  him  again  she  had  never  consid 
ered  the  possibility  of  re-marriage,  and  when  it  sud 
denly  confronted  her  it  seemed,  for  the  .moment,  to  dis^ 
organize  the  life  she  had  planned  for  herself  and  her 
child.  She  had  not  spoken  of  this  to  Darrow  because  it 
appeared  to  her  a  subject  to  be  debated  within  her  own 
conscience.  The  question,  then,  was  not  as  to  his  fitness 
to  become  the  guide  and  guardian  of  her  child;  nor  did 
she  fear  that  her  love  for  him  would  deprive  Effie  of 
the  least  fraction  of  her  tenderness,  since  she  did  not 
think  of  love  as  something  measured  and  exhaustible  but 

[325] 


THE     REEF 

as  a  treasure  perpetually  renewed.  What  she  questioned 
was  her  right  to  introduce  into  her  life  any  interests  and 
duties  which  might  rob  Effie  of  a  part  of  her  time,  or 
lessen  the  closeness  of  their  daily  intercourse. 

She  had  decided  this  question  as  it  was  inevitable  that 
she  should ;  but  now  another  was  before  her.  Assuredly, 
at  her  age,  there  was  no  possible  reason  why  she  should 
cloister  herself  to  bring  up  her  daughter;  but  there  was 
every  reason  for  not  marrying  a  man  in  whom  her  own 
faith  was  not  complete  .  .  . 


XXXIV 

WHEN  she  woke  the  next  morning  she  felt  a  great 
lightness  of  heart.  She  recalled  her  last  awaken 
ing  at  Givre,  three  days  before,  when  it  had  seemed  as 
though  all  her  life  had  gone  down  in  darkness.  Now 
Darrow  was  once  more  under  the  same  roof  with  her,  and 
once  more  his  nearness  sufficed  to  make  the  looming  hor 
ror  drop  away.  She  could  almost  have  smiled  at  her 
scruples  of  the  night  before :  as  she  looked  back  on  them 
they  seemed  to  belong  to  the  old  ignorant  timorous  time 
when  she  had  feared  to  look  life  in  the  face,  and  had  been 
blind  to  the  mysteries  and  contradictions  of  the  human 
heart  because  her  own  had  not  been  revealed  to  her. 
Darrow  had  said :  "You  were  made  to  feel  everything" ; 
and  to  feel  was  surely  better  than  to  judge. 

When  she  came  downstairs  he  was  already  in  the  oak- 
room  with  Effie  and  Madame  de  Chantelle,  and  the  sense 

[326] 


THE     REEF 

of  reassurance  which  his  presence  gave  her  was  merged 
in  the  relief  of  not  being  able  to  speak  of  what  was  be 
tween  them.  But  there  it  was,  inevitably,  and  whenever 
they  looked  at  each  other  they  saw  it.  In  her  dread  of 
giving  it  a  more  tangible  shape  she  tried  to  devise  means 
of  keeping  the  little  girl  with  her,  and,  when  the  latter 
had  been  called  away  by  the  nurse,  found  an  excuse 
for  following  Madame  de  Chantelle  upstairs  to  the  purple 
sitting-room.  But  a  confidential  talk  with  Madame  de 
Chantelle  implied  the  detailed  discussion  of  plans  of 
which  Anna  could  hardly  yet  bear  to  consider  the  vaguest 
outline  :  the  date  of  her  marriage,  the  relative  advantages 
of  sailing  from  London  or  Lisbon,  the  possibility  of  hir 
ing  a  habitable  house  at  their  new  post ;  and,  when  these 
problems  were  exhausted,  the  application  of  the  same 
method  to  the  subject  of  Owen's  future. 

His  grandmother,  having  no  suspicion  of  the  real  rea 
son  of  Sophy  Viner's  departure,  had  thought  it  "ex 
tremely  suitable"  of  the  young  girl  to  withdraw  to  the 
shelter  of  her  old  friends'  roof  in  the  hour  of  bridal 
preparation.  This  maidenly  retreat  had  in  fact  impressed 
Madame  de  Chantelle  so  favourably  that  she  was  dis 
posed  for  the  first  time  to  talk  over  Owen's  projects ;  and 
as  every  human  event  translated  itself  for  her  into  terms 
of  social  and  domestic  detail,  Anna  had  perforce  to 
travel  the  same  round  again.  She  felt  a  momentary  re 
lief  when  Darrow  presently  joined  them ;  but  his  coming 
served  only  to  draw  the  conversation  back  to  the  ques 
tion  of  their  own  future,  and  Anna  felt  a  new  pang 
as  she  heard  him  calmly  and  lucidly  discussing  it.  Did 
such  self-possession  imply  indifference  or  insincerity  ?  In 

1 327  ] 


THE     REEF 

that  problem  her  mind  perpetually  revolved ;  and  she 
dreaded  the  one  answer  as  much  as  the  other. 

She  was  resolved  to  keep  on  her  course  as  though 
nothing  had  happened:  to  marry  Darrow  and  never  let 
the  consciousness  of  the  past  intrude  itself  between  them  ; 
but  she  was  beginning  to  feel  that  the  only  way  of  at 
taining  to  this  state  of  detachment  from  the  irreparable 
was  once  for  all  to  turn  back  with  him  to  its  contempla 
tion.  As  soon  as  this  desire  had  germinated  it  became  so 
strong  in  her  that  she  regretted  having  promised  Erne  to 
take  her  out  for  the  afternoon.  But  she  could  think  of 
no  pretext  for  disappointing  the  little  girl,  and  soon  after 
luncheon  the  three  set  forth  in  the  motor  to  show  Dar 
row  a  chateau  famous  in  the  annals  of  the  region.  Dur 
ing  their  excursion  Anna  found  it  impossible  to  guess 
from  his  demeanour  if  Effie's  presence  between  them  was 
as  much  of  a  strain  to  his  composure  as  to  hers.  He 
remained  imperturbably  good-humoured  and  appreciative 
while  they  went  the  round  of  the  monument,  and  she 
remarked  only  that  when  he  thought  himself  unnoticed 
his  face  grew  grave  and  his  answers  came  less  promptly. 

On  the  way  back,  two  or  three  miles  from  Givre,  she 
suddenly  proposed  that  they  should  walk  home  through 
the  forest  which  skirted  that  side  of  the  park.  Darrow 
acquiesced,  and  they  got  out  and  sent  Effie  on  in  the 
motor.  Their  way  led  through  a  bit  of  sober  French 
woodland,  flat  as  a  faded  tapestry,  but  with  gleams  of 
live  emerald  lingering  here  and  there  among  its  browns 
and  ochres.  The  luminous  grey  air  gave  vividness  to  its 
dying  colours,  and  veiled  the  distant  glimpses  of  the  land 
scape  in  soft  uncertainty.  In  such  a  solitude  Anna  had 

[328] 


THE     REEF 

fancied  it  would  be  easier  to  speak;  but  as  she  walked 
beside  Darrow  over  the  deep  soundless  flooring  of  brown 
moss  the  words  on  her  lips  took  flight  again.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  break  the  spell  of  quiet  joy  which  his 
presence  laid  on  her,  and  when  he  began  to  talk  of 
the  place  they  had  just  visited  she  answered  his  ques 
tions  and  then  waited  for  what  he  should  say  next  .  .  . 
No,  decidedly  she  could  not  speak;  she  no  longer  even 
knew  what  she  had  meant  to  say  .  .  . 

The  same  experience  repeated  itself  several  times  that 
day  and  the  next.  When  she  and  Darrow  were  apart 
she  exhausted  herself  in  appeal  and  interrogation,  she 
formulated  with  a  fervent  lucidity  every  point  in  her 
imaginary  argument.  But  as  soon  as  she  was  alone  with 
him  something  deeper  than  reason  and  subtler  than  shy 
ness  laid  its  benumbing  touch  upon  her,  and  the  desire  to 
speak  became  merely  a  dim  disquietude*  through  which 
his  looks,  his  words,  his  touch,  reached  her  as  through 
a  mist  of  bodily  pain.  Yet  this  inertia  was  torn  by  wild 
flashes  of  resistance,  and  when  they  were  apart  she  began 
to  prepare  again  what  she  meant  to.  say  to  him. 

She  knew  he  could  not  be  with  her  without  being 
aware  of  this  inner  turmoil,  and  she  hoped  he  would 
break  the  spell  by  some  releasing  word.  But  she  pres 
ently  understood  that  he  recognized  the  futility  of  words, 
and  was  resolutely  bent  on  holding  her  to  her  own  pur 
pose  of  behaving  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Once  more 
she  inwardly  accused  him  of  insensibility,  and  her  imag 
ination  was  beset  by  tormenting  visions  of  his  past  .  .  . 
Had  such  things  happened  to  him  before?  If  the  episode 
had  been  an  isolated  accident — "a  moment  of  folly  and 

[329] 


THE     REEF 

madness",  as  he  had  called  it — she  could  understand,  or 
at  least  begin  to  understand  (for  at  a  certain  point  her 
imagination  always  turned  back)  ;  but  if  it  were  a  mere 
link  in  a  chain  of  similar  experiments,  the  thought  of  it 
dishonoured  her  whole  past  .  .  . 

Effie,  in  the  interregnum  between  governesses,  had 
been  given  leave  to  dine  downstairs ;  and  .Anna,  on  the 
evening  of  Darrow's  return,  kept  the  little  girl  with  her 
till  long  after  the  nurse  had  signalled  from  the  drawing- 
room  door.  When  at  length  she  had  been  carried  off, 
Anna  proposed  a  game  of  cards,  and  after  this  diversion 
had  drawn  to  its  languid  close  she  said  good-night  to 
Darrow  and  followed  Madame  de  Chantelle  upstairs. 
But  Madame  de  Chantelle  never  sat  up  late,  and  the  sec 
ond  evening,  with  the  amiably  implied  intention  of  leav 
ing  Anna  and  Darrow  to  themselves,  she  took  an  earlier 
leave  of  them  than  usual. 

Anna  sat  silent,  listening  to  her  small  stiff  steps  as  they 
minced  down  the  hall  and  died  out  in  the  distance. 
Madame  de  Chantelle  had  broken  her  wooden  embroidery 
frame,  and  Darrow,  having  offered  to  repair  it,  had 
drawn  his  chair  up  to  a  table  that  held  a  lamp.  Anna 
watched  him  as  he  sat  with  bent  head  and  knitted  brows, 
trying  to  fit  together  the  disjoined  pieces.  The  sight  of 
him,  so  tranquilly  absorbed  in  this  trifling  business, 
seemed  to  give  to  the  quiet  room  a  perfume  of  intimacy, 
to  fill  it  with  a  sense  of  sweet  familiar  habit ;  and  it  came 
over  her  again  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  inner 
thoughts  of  this  man  who  was  sitting  by  her  as  a  husband 
might.  The  lamplight  fell  on  his  white  forehead,  on  the 
healthy  brown  of  his  cheek,  the  backs  of  his  thin  sun- 

[330] 


THE     REEF 

burnt  hands.  As  she  watched  the  hands  her  sense  of 
them  became  as  vivid  as  a  touch,  and  she  said  to  herself : 
"That  other  woman  has  sat  and  watched  him  as  I  am 
doing.  She  has  known  him  as  I  have  never  known 
him  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  is  thinking  of  that  now.  Or  per 
haps  he  has  forgotten  it  all  as  completely  as  I  have 
forgotten  everything  that  happened  to  me  before  he 
came  ..." 

He  looked  young,  active,  stored  with  strength  and  en 
ergy ;  not  the  man  for  vain  repinings  or  long  memories. 
She  wondered  what  she  had  to  hold  or  satisfy  him.  He 
loved  her  now ;  she  had  no  doubt  of  that ;  but  how  could 
she  hope  to  keep  him?  They  were  so  nearly  of  an  age 
that  already  she  felt  herself  his  senior.  As  yet  the  differ 
ence  was  not  visible;  outwardly  at  least  they  were 
matched;  but  ill-health  or  unhappiness  would  soon  do 
away  with  this  equality.  She  thought  with  a  pang  of 
bitterness :  "He  won't  grow  any  older  because  he  doesn't 
feel  things ;  and  because  he  doesn't,  I  shall  .  .  ." 

And  when  she  ceased  to  please  him,  what  then?  Had 
he  the  tradition  of  faith  to  the  spoken  vow,  or  the  deeper 
piety  of  the  unspoken  dedication  ?  What  was  his  theory, 
what  his  inner  conviction  in  such  matters?  But  what 
did  she  care  for  his  convictions  or  his  theories  ?  No  doubt 
he  loved  her  now,  and  believed  he  would  always  go  on 
loving  her,  and  was  persuaded  that,  if  he  ceased  to,  his 
loyalty  would  be  proof  against  the  change.  What  she 
wanted  to  know  was  not  what  he  thought  about  it  in  ad 
vance,  but  what  would  impel  or  restrain  him  at  the  crucial 
hour.  She  put  no  faith  in  her  own  arts :  she  was  too  sure 
of  having  none !  And  if  some  beneficent  enchanter  had 
23  [  331  ] 


THE     REEF 

bestowed  them  on  her,  she  knew  now  that  she  would  have 
rejected  the  gift.  She  could  hardly  conceive  of  wanting 
the  kind  of  love  that  was  a  state  one  could  be  cozened 
into  .  .  . 

Darrow,  putting  away  the  frame,  walked  across  the 
room  and  sat  down  beside  her;  and  she  felt  he  had 
something  special  to  say. 

"They're  sure  to  send  for  me  in  a  day  or  two  now,"  he 
began. 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  continued:  "You'll  tell 
me  before  I  go  what  day  I'm  to  come  back  and  get  you  ?" 

It  was  the  first  time  since  his  return  to  Givre  that  he 
had  made  any  direct  allusion  to  the  date  of  their  mar 
riage;  and  instead  of  answering  him  she  broke  out: 
"There's  something  I've  been  wanting  you  to  know.  The 
other  day  in  Paris  I  saw  Miss  Viner." 

She  saw  him  flush  with  the  intensity  of  his  surprise. 

"You  sent  for  her?" 

"No ;  she  heard  from  Adelaide  that  I  was  in  Paris  and 
she  came.  She  came  because  she  wanted  to  urge  me  to 
marry  you.  I  thought  you  ought  to  know  what  she  had 
done." 

Darrow  stood  up.  "I'm  glad  you've  told  me."  He 
spoke  with  a  visible  effort  at  composure.  Her  eyes  fol 
lowed  him  as  he  moved  away. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked  after  an  interval. 

"It  seems  to  me  a  great  deal." 

"It's  what  she'd  already  asked  me."  His  voice  showed 
her  how  deeply  he  was  moved,  and  a  throb  of  jealousy 
shot  through  her. 

"Oh,  it  was  for  your  sake,  I  know!"     He  made  no 

[  332  ] 


THE     REEF 

answer,  and  she  added:  "She's  been  exceedingly  gen 
erous  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  we  speak  of  it?" 

She  had  lowered  her  head,  but  through  her  dropped 
lids  she  seemed  to  be  watching  the  crowded  scene  of  his 
face. 

"I've  not  shrunk  from  speaking  of  it." 

"Speaking  of  her,  then,  I  mean.  It  seems  to  me  that 
if  I  could  talk  to  you  about  her  I  should  know  better " 

She  broke  off,  confused,  and  he  questioned:  "What  is 
it  you  want  to  know  better?" 

The  colour  rose  to  her  forehead.  How  could  she  tell 
him  what  she  scarcely  dared  own  to  herself  ?  There  was 
nothing  she  did  not  want  to  know,  no  fold  or  cranny 
of  his  secret  that  her  awakened  imagination  did  not 
strain  to  penetrate ;  but  she  could  not  expose  Sophy  Viner 
to  the  base  fingerings  of  a  retrospective  jealousy,  nor 
Darrow  to  the  temptation  of  belittling  her  in  the  effort 
to  better  his  own  case.  The  girl  had  been  magnificent, 
and  the  only  worthy  return  that  Anna  could  make  was 
to  take  Darrow  from  her  without  a  question  if  she  took 
him  at  all  ... 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face.  "I  think  I  only  wanted 
to  speak  her  name.  It's  not  right  that  we  should  seem 
so  afraid  of  it.  If  I  were  really  afraid  of  it  I  should 
have  to  give  you  up,"  she  said. 

He  bent  over  her  and  caught  her  to  him.  "Ah,  you 
can't  give  me  up  now !"  he  exclaimed. 

She  suffered  him  to  hold  her  fast  without  speaking; 
but  the  old  dread  was  between  them  again,  and  it  was 
on  her  lips  to  cry  out :  "How  can  I  help  it,  when  I  am 
so  afraid?" 

[333] 


THE     REEF 


XXXV 

next  morning  the  dread  was  still  there,  and  she 
JL  understood  that  she  must  snatch  herself  out  of 
the  torpor  of  the  will  into  which  she  had  been  gradually 
sinking,  and  tell  Darrow  that  she  could  not  be  his  wife. 
The  knowledge  came  to  her  in  the  watches  of  a  sleep 
less  night,  when,  through  the  tears  of  disenchanted  pas 
sion,  she  stared  back  upon  her  past.  There  it  lay  be 
fore  her,  her  sole  romance,  in  all  its  paltry  poverty,  the 
cheapest  of  cheap  adventures,  the  most  pitiful  of  senti 
mental  blunders.  She  looked  about  her  room,  the  room 
where,  for  so  many  years,  if  her  heart  had  been  quiescent 
her  thoughts  had  been  alive,  and  pictured  herself  hence 
forth  cowering  before  a  throng  of  mean  suspicions,  of  un- 
avowed  compromises  and  concessions.  In  that  moment 
of  self-searching  she  saw  that  Sophy  Viner  had  chosen 
the  better  part,  and  that  certain  renunciations  might  en 
rich  where  possession  would  have  left  a  desert. 

Passionate  reactions  of  instinct  fought  against  these 
efforts  of  her  will.  Why  should  past  or  future  coerce  her, 
when  the  present  was  so  securely  hers?  Why  insanely 
surrender  what  the  other  would  after  all  never  have? 
Her  sense  of  irony  whispered  that  if  she  sent  away  Dar 
row  it  would  not  be  to  Sophy  Viner,  but  to  the  first 
woman  who  crossed  his  path — as,  in  a  similar  hour, 
Sophy  Viner  herself  had  crossed  it  ...  But  the  mere 
fact  that  she  could  think  such  things  of  him  sent  her 
shuddering  back  to  the  opposite  pole.  She  pictured  her- 

[334] 


THE     REEF 

self  gradually  subdued  to  such  a  conception  of  life  and 
love,  she  pictured  Effie  growing  up  under  the  influence  of 
the  woman  she  saw  herself  becoming — and  she  hid  her 
eyes  from  the  humiliation  of  the  picture  .  .  . 

They  were  at  luncheon  when  the  summons  that  Dar- 
row  expected  was  brought  to  him.  He  handed  the  tele 
gram  to  Anna,  and  she  learned  that  his  Ambassador,  on 
the  way  to  a  German  cure,  was  to  be  in  Paris  the  next 
evening  and  wished  to  confer  with  him  there  before  he 
went  back  to  London.  The  idea  that  the  decisive  mo 
ment  was  at  hand  was  so  agitating  to  her  that  when 
luncheon  was  over  she  slipped  away  to  the  terrace  and 
thence  went  down  alone  to  the  garden.  The  day  was 
grey  but  mild,  with  the  heaviness  of  decay  in  the  air. 
She  rambled  on  aimlessly,  following  under  the  denuded 
boughs  the  path  she  and  Darrow  had  taken  on  their  first 
walk  to  the  river.  She  was  sure  he  would  not  try  to  over 
take  her:  sure  he  would  guess  why  she  wished  to  be 
alone.  There  were  moments  when  it  seemed  to  double 
her  loneliness  to  be  so  certain  of  his  reading  her  heart 
while  she  was  so  desperately  ignorant  of  his  ... 

She  wandered  on  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  when 
she  returned  to  the  house  she  saw,  as  she  entered  the 
hall,  that  Darrow  was  seated  at  the  desk  in  Owen's 
study.  He  heard  her  step,  and  looking  up  turned  in  his 
chair  without  rising.  Their  eyes  met,  and  she  saw  that 
his  were  clear  and  smiling.  He  had  a  heap  of  papers  at 
his  elbow  and  was  evidently  engaged  in  some  official 
correspondence.  She  wondered  that  he  could  address 
himself  so  composedly  to  his  task,  and  then  ironically 

[335] 


THE     REEF 

reflected  that  such  detachment  was  a  sign  of  his  supe 
riority.  She  crossed  the  threshold  and  went  toward  him ; 
but  as  she  advanced  she  had  a  sudden  vision  of  Owen, 
standing  outside  in  the  cold  autumn  dusk  and  watching 
Darrow  and  Sophy  Viner  as  they  faced  each  other  across 
the  lamplit  desk  .  .  .  The  evocation  was  so  vivid  that 
it  caught  her  breath  like  a  blow,  and  she  sank  down  help 
lessly  on  the  divan  among  the  piled-up  books.  Distinctly, 
at  the  moment,  she  understood  that  the  end  had  come. 
"When  he  speaks  to  me  I  will  tell  him !"  she  thought  .  .  . 

Darrow,  laying  aside  his  pen,  looked  at  her  for  a  mo 
ment  in  silence;  then  he  stood  up  and  shut  the  door. 

"I  must  go  to-morrow  early,"  he  said,  sitting  down 
beside  her.  His  voice  was  grave,  with  a  slight  tinge  of 
sadness.  She  said  to  herself:  "He  knows  what  I  am 
feeling  ..."  and  now  the  thought  made  her  feel  less 
alone.  The  expression  of  his  face  was  stern  a*nd  yet 
tender:  for  the  first  time  she  understood  what  he  had 
suffered. 

She  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  necessity  of  giving  him 
up,  but  it  was  impossible  to  tell  him  so  then.  She  stood 
up  and  said:  'Til  leave  you  to  your  letters."  He  made 
no  protest,  but  merely  answered:  "You'll  come  down 
presently  for  a  walk?"  and  it  occurred  to  her  at  once 
that  she  would  walk  down  to  the  river  with  him,  and 
give  herself  for  the  last  time  the  tragic  luxury  of  sitting 
at  his  side  in  the  little  pavilion.  "Perhaps,"  she  thought, 
"it  will  be  easier  to  tell  him  there." 

It  did  not,  on  the  way  home  from  their  walk,  become 
any  easier  to  tell  him ;  but  her  secret  decision  to  do  so  be 
fore  he  left  gave  her  a  kind  of  factitious  calm  and  laid  a 

[336] 


THE     REEF 

melancholy  ecstasy  upon  the  hour.  Still  skirting  the  sub 
ject  that  fanned  their  very  faces  with  its  flame,  they 
clung  persistently  to  other  topics,  and  it  seemed  to  Anna 
that  their  minds  had  never  been  nearer  together  than  in 
this  hour  when  their  hearts  were  so  separate.  In  the 
glow  of  interchanged  love  she  had  grown  less  conscious 
of  that  other  glow  of  interchanged  thought  which  had 
once  illumined  her  mind.  She  had  forgotten  how 
Darrow  had  widened  her  world  and  lengthened  out 
all  her  perspectives,  and  with  a  pang  of  double  desti 
tution  she  saw  herself  alone  among  her  shrunken 
thoughts. 

For  the  first  time,  then,  she  had  a  clear  vision  of 
what  her  life  would  be  without  him.  She  imagined  her 
self  trying  to  take  up  the  daily  round,  and  all  that  had 
lightened  and  animated  it  seemed  equally  lifeless  and 
vain.  She  tried  to  think  of  herself  as  wholly  absorbed  in 
her  daughter's  development,  like  other  mothers  she  had 
seen;  but  she  supposed  those  mothers  must  have  had 
stored  memories  of  happiness  to  nourish  them.  She  had 
had  nothing,  and  all  her  starved  youth  still  claimed  its 
due. 

When  she  went  up  to  dress  for  dinner  she  said  to  her 
self :  "I'll  have  my  last  evening  with  him,  and  then,  be 
fore  we  say  good  night,  I'll  tell  him." 

This  postponement  did  not  seem  unjustified.  Darrow 
had  shown  her  how  he  dreaded  vain  words,  how  resolved 
he  was  to  avoid  all  fruitless  discussion.  He  must  have 
been  intensely  aware  of  what  had  been  going  on  in  her 
mind  since  his  return,  yet  when  she  had  attempted  to 
reveal  it  to  him  he  had  turned  from  the  revelation.  She 

[337] 


THE     REEF 

was  therefore  merely  following  the  line  he  had  traced 
in  behaving,  till  the  final  moment  came,  as  though  there 
were  nothing  more  to  say  .  .  . 

That  moment  seemed  at  last  to  be  at  hand  when,  at 
her  usual  hour  after  dinner,  Madame  de  Chantelle  rose 
to  go  upstairs.  She  lingered  a  little  to  bid  good-bye 
to  Darrow,  whom  she  was  not  likely  to  see  in  the  morn 
ing;  and  her  affable  allusions  to  his  prompt  return 
sounded  in  Anna's  ear  like  the  note  of  destiny. 

A  cold  rain  had  fallen  all  day,  and  for  greater  warmth 
and  intimacy  they  had  gone  after  dinner  to  the  oak- 
room,  shutting  out  the  chilly  vista  of  the  farther  draw 
ing-rooms.  The  autumn  wind,  coming  up  from  the  river, 
cried  about  the  house  with  a  voice  of  loss  and  separation ; 
and  Anna  and  Darrow  sat  silent,  as  if  they  feared  to 
break  the  hush  that  shut  them  in.  The  solitude,  the  fire 
light,  the  harmony  of  soft  hangings  and  old  dim  pic 
tures,  wove  about  them  a  spell  of  security  through  which 
Anna  felt,  far  down  in  her  heart,  the  muffled  beat  of 
an  inextinguishable  bliss.  How  could  she  have  thought 
that  this  last  moment  would  be  the  moment  to  speak  to 
him,  when  it  seemed  to  have  gathered  up  into  its  flight  all 
the  scattered  splendours  of  her  dream  ? 


XXXVI 

DARROW  continued  to  stand  by  the  door  after  it 
had  closed.    Anna  felt  that  he  was  looking  at  her, 
and  sat  still,  disdaining  to  seek  refuge  in  any  evasive 

[338] 


THE     REEF 

word  or  movement.  For  the  last  time  she  wanted  to 
let  him  take  from  her  the  fulness  of  what  the  sight  of 
her  could  give. 

He  crossed  over  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  For  a 
moment  neither  of  them  spoke ;  then  he  said :  "To-night, 
dearest,  I  must  have  my  answer." 

She  straightened  herself  under  the  shock  of  his  seeming 
to  take  the  very  words  from  her  lips. 

"To-night?"  was  all  that  she  could  falter. 

"I  must  be  of?  by  the  early  train.  There  won't  be 
more  than  a  moment  in  the  morning." 

He  had  taken  her  hand,  and  she  said  to  herself  that 
she  must  free  it  before  she  could  go  on  with  what  she 
had  to  say.  Then  she  rejected  this  concession  to  a  weak 
ness  she  was  resolved  to  defy.  To  the  end  she  would 
leave  her  hand  in  his  hand,  her  eyes  in  his  eyes :  she 
would  not,  in  their  final  hour  together,  be  afraid  of  any 
part  of  her  love  for  him. 

"You'll  tell  me  to-night,  dear,"  he  insisted  gently;  and 
his  insistence  gave  her  the  strength  to  speak. 

"There's  something  I  must  ask  you,"  she  broke  out, 
perceiving,  as  she  heard  her  words,  that  they  were  not 
in  the  least  what  she  had  meant  to  say. 

He  sat  still,  waiting,  and  she  pressed  on:  "Do  such 
things  happen  to  men  often?" 

The  quiet  room  seemed  to  resound  with  the  long  re 
verberations  of  her  question.  She  looked  away  from 
him,  and  he  released  her  and  stood  up. 

"I  don't  know  what  happens  to  other  men.  Such  a 
thing  never  happened  to  me  ..." 

She  turned  her  eyes  back  to  his  face.     She  felt  like 

[339] 


THE     REEF 

a  traveller  on  a  giddy  path  between  a  cliff  and  a  preci 
pice  :  there  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  go  on. 

"Had  it  ...  had  it  begun  .  .  .  before  you  met  her  in 
Paris?" 

"No;  a  thousand  times  no!  I've  told  you  the  facts  as 
they  were." 

"All  the  facts?" 

He  turned  abruptly.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

Her  throat  was  dry  and  the  loud  pulses  drummed  in 
her  temples. 

"I  mean — about  her  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  knew  .  .  .  knew 
things  about  her  .  .  .  beforehand." 

She  stopped.  The  room  had  grown  profoundly  still. 
A  log  dropped  to  the  hearth  and  broke  there  in  a  hissing 
shower. 

Darrow  spoke  in  a  clear  voice.  "I  knew  nothing,  abso 
lutely  nothing,"  he  said. 

She  had  the  answer  to  her  inmost  doubt — to  her  last 
shameful  unavowed  hope.  She  sat  powerless  under  her 
woe. 

He  walked  to  the  fireplace  and  pushed  back  the  bro 
ken  log  with  his  foot.  A  flame  shot  out  of  it,  and  in 
the  upward  glare  she  saw  his  pale  face,  stern  with 
misery 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked. 

She  made  a  slight  sign  with  her  head  and  he  came 
slowly  back  to  her.  "Then  is  this  to  be  good-bye  ?" 

Again  she  signed  a  faint  assent,  and  he  made  no  effort 
to  touch  her  or  draw  nearer.  "You  understand  that  I 
sha'n't  come  back  ?" 

He  was  looking  at  her,  and  she  tried  to  return  his  look, 
[340] 


THE     REEF 

but  her  eyes  were  blind  with  tears,  and  in  dread  of  his 
seeing  them  she  got  up  and  walked  away.  He  did  not 
follow  her,  and  she  stood  with  her  back  to  him,  staring 
at  a  bowl  of  carnations  on  a  little  table  strewn  with  books. 
Her  tears  magnified  everything  she  looked  at,  and  the 
streaked  petals  of  the  carnations,  their  fringed  edges  and 
frail  curled  stamens,  pressed  upon  her,  huge  and  vivid. 
She  noticed  among  the  books  a  volume  of  verse  he  had 
sent  her  from  England,  and  tried  to  remember  whether 
it  was  before  or  after  .  .  . 

She  felt  that  he  was  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  and  at 
last  she  turned  to  him.  "I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  be 
fore  you  go  ..." 

He  made  no  answer. 

She  moved  toward  the  door  and  he  held  it  open  for  her. 
She  saw  his  hand  on  the  door,  and  his  seal  ring  in  its 
setting  of  twisted  silver ;  and  the  sense  of  the  end  of  all 
things  came  to  her. 

They  walked  down  the  drawing-rooms,  between  the 
shadowy  reflections  of  screens  and  cabinets,  and  mounted 
the  stairs  side  by  side.  At  the  end  of  the  gallery,  a  lamp 
brought  out  turbid  gleams  in  the  smoky  battle-piece 
above  it. 

On  the  landing  Darrow  stopped ;  his  room  was  the 
nearest  to  the  stairs.  "Good  night,"  he  said,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

As  Anna  gave  him  hers  the  springs  of  grief  broke 
loose  in  her.  She  struggled  with  her  sobs,  and  subdued 
them ;  but  her  breath  came  unevenly,  and  to  hide  her  agi 
tation  she  leaned  on  him  and  pressed  her  face  against 
his  arm. 

[341] 


THE     REEF 

"Don't — don't/'  he  whispered,  soothing  her. 

Her  troubled  breathing  sounded  loudly  in  the  silence  of 
the  sleeping  house.  She  pressed  her  lips  tight,  but  could 
not  stop  the  nervous  pulsations  in  her  throat,  and  he  put 
an  arm  about  her  and,  opening  his  door,  drew  her  across 
the  threshold  of  his  room.  The  door  shut  behind  her 
and  she  sat  down  on  the  lounge  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
The  pulsations  in  her  throat  had  ceased,  but  she  knew  they 
would  begin  again  if  she  tried  to  speak. 

Darrow  walked  away  and  leaned  against  the  mantel 
piece.  The  red-veiled  lamp  shone  on  his  books  and 
papers,  on  the  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  and  the  scattered 
objects  on  his  dressing-table.  A  log  glimmered  on  the 
hearth,  and  the  room  was  warm  and  faintly  smoke- 
scented.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  been  in  a 
room  he  lived  in,  among  his  personal  possessions  and 
the  Uaces  of  his  daily  usage.  Every  object  about  her 
seemed  to  contain  a  particle  of  himself:  the  whole  air 
breathed  of  him,  steeping  her  in  the  sense  of  his  intimate 
presence. 

Suddenly  she  thought:  'This  is  what  Sophy  Viner 
knew"  .  .  .  and  with  a  torturing  precision  she  pictured 
them  alone  in  such  a  scene  .  .  .  Had  he  taken  the  girl  to 
an  hotel  .  .  .  where  did  people  go  in  such  cases? 
Wherever  they  were,  the  silence  of  night  had  been 
around  them,  and  the  things  he  used  had  been  strewn 
about  the  room  .  .  .  Anna,  ashamed  of  dwelling  on  the 
detested  vision,  stood  up  with  a  confused  impulse  of 
flight;  then  a  wave  of  contrary  feeling  arrested  her  and 
she  paused  with  lowered  head. 

Darrow  had  come  forward  as  she  rose,  and  she  per- 

[342] 


THE     REEF 

ceived  that  he  was  waiting  for  her  to  bid  him  good 
night.  It  was  clear  that  no  other  possibility  had  even 
brushed  his  mind;  and  the  fact,  for  some  dim  reason, 
humiliated  her.  "Why  not  .  .  .  why  not?"  something 
whispered  in  her,  as  though  his  forbearance,  his  tacit 
recognition  of  her  pride,  were  a  slight  on  other  qualities 
she  wanted  him  to  feel  in  her. 

"In  the  morning,  then?"  she  heard  him  say. 

"Yes,  in  the  morning,"  she  repeated. 

She  continued  to  stand  in  the  same  place,  looking 
vaguely  about  the  room.  For  once  before  they  parted — 
since  part  they  must — she  longed  to  be  to  him  all  that 
Sophy  Viner  had  been;  but  she  remained  rooted  to  the 
floor,  unable  to  find  a  word  or  imagine  a  gesture  that 
should  express  her  meaning.  Exasperated  by  her  help 
lessness,  she  thought:  "Don't  I  feel  things  as  other 
women  do?" 

Her  eye  fell  on  a  note-case  she  had  given  him.  It 
was  worn  at  the  corners  with  the  friction  of  his  pocket 
and  distended  with  thickly  packed  papers.  She  wondered 
if  he  carried  her  letters  in  it,  and  she  put  her  hand  out 
and  touched  it. 

All  that  he  and  she  had  ever  felt  or  seen,  their  close 
encounters  of  word  and  look,  and  the  closer  contact  of 
their  silences,  trembled  through  her  at  the  touch.  She 
remembered  things  he  had  said  that  had  been  like  new 
skies  above  her  head:  ways  he  had  that  seemed  a  part 
of  the  air  she  breathed.  The  faint  warmth  of  her  girlish 
love  came  back  to  her,  gathering  heat  as  it  passed  through 
her  thoughts;  and  her  heart  rocked  like  a  boat  on  the 
surge  of  its  long  long  memories.  "It's  because  I  love 

[343] 


THE     REEF 

him  in  too  many  ways,"  she  thought;  and  slowly  she 
turned  to  the  door. 

She  was  aware  that  Darrow  was  still  silently  watching 
her,  but  he  neither  stirred  nor  spoke  till  she  had  reached 
the  threshold.  Then  he  met  her  there  and  caught  her 
in  his  arms. 

"Not  to-night — don't  tell  me  to-night !"  he  whispered ; 
and  she  leaned  away  from  him,  closing  her  eyes  for  an 
instant,  and  then  slowly  opening  them  to  the  flood  of 
light  in  his. 


'XXXVII 

ANNA  and  Darrow,  the  next  day,  sat  alone  in  a 
compartment  of  the  Paris  train. 

Anna,  when  they  entered  it,  had  put  herself  in  the 
farthest  corner  and  placed  her  bag  on  the  adjoining  seat. 
She  had  decided  suddenly  to  accompany  Darrow  to  Paris, 
had  even  persuaded  him  to  wait  for  a  later  train  in  order 
that  they  might  travel  together.  She  had  an  intense 
longing  to  be  with  him,  an  almost  morbid  terror  of  losing 
sight  of  him  for  a  moment:  when  he  jumped  out  of  the 
train  and  ran  back  along  the  platform  to  buy  a  news 
paper  for  her  she  felt  as  though  she  should  never  see  him 
again,  and  shivered  with  the  cold  misery  of  her  last  jour 
ney  to  Paris,  when  she  had  thought  herself  parted  from 
him  forever.  Yet  she  wanted  to  keep  him  at  a  distance, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  compartment,  and  as  the  train 
moved  out  of  the  station  she  drew  from  her  bag  the  let 
ters  she  had  thrust  in  it  as  she  left  the  house,  and  be- 

[344] 


THE     REEF 

gan  to  glance  over  them  so  that  her  lowered  lids  should 
hide  her  eyes  from  him. 

She  was  his  now,  his  for  life :  there  could  never  again 
be  any  question  of  sacrificing  herself  to  Effie's  welfare, 
or  to  any  other  abstract  conception  of  duty.  Effie  of 
course  would  not  suffer ;  Anna  would  pay  for  her  bliss  as 
a  wife  by  redoubled  devotion  as  a  mother.  Her  scruples 
were  not  overcome;  but  for  the  time  their  voices  were 
drowned  in  the  tumultuous  rumour  of  her  happiness. 

As  she  opened  her  letters  she  was  conscious  that  Dar- 
row's  gaze  was  fixed  on  her,  and  gradually  it  drew  her 
eyes  upward,  and  she  drank  deep  of  the  passionate  ten 
derness  in  his.  Then  the  blood  rose  to  her  face  and 
she  felt  again  the  desire  to  shield  herself.  She  turned 
back  to  her  letters  and  her  glance  lit  on  an  envelope  in 
scribed  in  Owen's  hand. 

Her  heart  began  to  beat  oppressively:  she  was  in  a 
mood  when  the  simplest  things  seemed  ominous.  What 
could  Owen  have  to  say  to  her?  Only  the  first  page  was 
covered,  and  it  contained  simply  the  announcement  that, 
in  the  company  of  a  young  compatriot  who  was  studying 
at  the  Beaux  Arts,  he  had  planned  to  leave  for  Spain  the 
following  evening. 

"He  hasn't  seen  her,  then!"  was  Anna's  instant 
thought;  and  her  feeling  was  a  strange  compound  of 
humiliation  and  relief.  The  girl  had  kept  her  word, 
lived  up  to  the  line  of  conduct  she  had  set  herself;  and 
Anna  had  failed  in  the  same  attempt.  She  did  not  re 
proach  herself  with  her  failure ;  but  she  would  have  been 
happier  if  there  had  been  less  discrepancy  between  her 
words  to  Sophy  Viner  and  the  act  which  had  followed 

[345] 


THE     REEF 

them.  It  irritated  her  obscurely  that  the  girl  should  have 
been  so  much  surer  of  her  power  to  carry  out  her  pur 
pose  .  .  . 

Anna  looked  up  and  saw  that  Barrow's  eyes  were  on 
the  newspaper.  He  seemed  calm  and  secure,  almost  indif 
ferent  to  her  presence.  "Will  it  become  a  matter  of 
course  to  him  so  soon?"  she  wondered  with  a  twinge  of 
jealousy.  She  sat  motionless,  her  eyes  fixed  on  him, 
trying  to  make  him  feel  the  attraction  of  her  gaze  as  she 
felt  his.  It  surprised  and  shamed  her  to  detect  a  new 
element  in  her  love  for  him :  a  sort  of  suspicious  tyran 
nical  tenderness  that  seemed  to  deprive  it  of  all  serenity. 
Finally  he  looked  up,  his  smile  enveloped  her,  and  she 
felt  herself  his  in  every  fibre,  his  so  completely  and  in 
separably  that  she  saw  the  vanity  of  imagining  any  other 
fate  for  herself. 

To  give  herself  a  countenance  she  held  out  Owen's 
letter.  He  took  it  and  glanced  down  the  page,  his  face 
grown  grave.  She  waited  nervously  till  he  looked  up. 

"That's  a  good  plan;  the  best  thing  that  could  hap 
pen,"  he  said,  a  just  perceptible  shade  of  constraint  in 
his  tone. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  hastily  assented.  She  was  aware  of  a 
faint  current  of  relief  silently  circulating  between  them. 
They  were  both  glad  that  Owen  was  going,  that  for  a 
while  he  would  be  out  of  their  way ;  and  it  seemed  to  her 
horrible  that  so  much  of  the  stuff  of  their  happiness 
should  be  made  of  such  unavowed  feelings  .  .  . 

"I  shall  see  him  this  evening,"  she  said,  wishing  Dar- 
row  to  feel  that  she  was  not  afraid  of  meeting  her  step 
son. 

[346] 


THE     REEF 

"Yes,  of  course ;  perhaps  he  might  dine  with  you." 

The  words  struck  her  as  strangely  obtuse.  Darrow 
was  to  meet  his  Ambassador  at  the  station  on  the  latter's 
arrival,  and  would  in  all  probability  have  to  spend  the 
evening  with  him,  and  Anna  knew  he  had  been  concerned 
at  the  thought  of  having  to  leave  her  alone.  But  how 
could  he  speak  in  that  careless  tone  of  her  dining  with 
Owen?  She  lowered  her  voice  to  say:  "I'm  afraid  he's 
desperately  unhappy." 

He  answered,  with  a  tinge  of  impatience:  "It's  much 
the  best  thing  that  he  should  travel." 

"Yes— but  don't  you  feel  ..."  She  broke  off.  She 
knew  how  he  disliked  these  idle  returns  on  the  irrevoc 
able,  and  her  fear  of  doing  or  saying  what  he  disliked 
was  tinged  by  a  new  instinct  of  subserviency  against 
which  her  pride  revolted.  She  thought  to  herself :  "He 
will  see  the  change,  and  grow  indifferent  to  me  as  he 
did  to  her  ..."  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  was  reliving  the  experience  of  Sophy  Viner. 

Darrow  made  no  attempt  to  learn  the  end  of  her  un 
finished  sentence.  He  handed  back  Owen's  letter  and  re 
turned  to  his  newspaper;  and  when  he  looked  up  from 
it  a  few  minutes  later  it  was  with  a  clear  brow  and  a 
smile  that  irresistibly  drew  her  back  to  happier  thoughts. 

The  train  was  just  entering  a  station,  and  a  moment 
later  their  compartment  was  invaded  by  a  common-place 
couple  preoccupied  with  the  bestowal  of  bulging  pack 
ages.  Anna,  at  their  approach,  felt  the  possessive  pride 
of  the  woman  in  love  when  strangers  are  between  her 
self  and  the  man  she  loves.  She  asked  Darrow  to  open 
the  window,  to  place  her  bag  in  the  net,  to  roll  her  rug 

23  t  347  ] 


THE     REEF 

into  a  cushion  for  her  feet ;  and  while  he  was  thus  busied 
with  her  she  was  conscious  of  a  new  devotion  in  his  tone, 
in  his  way  of  bending  over  her  and  meeting  her  eyes.  He 
went  back  to  his  seat,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  like 
lovers  smiling  at  a  happy  secret. 

Anna,  before  going  back  to  Givre,  had  suggested 
Owen's  moving  into  her  apartment,  but  he  had  preferred 
to  remain  at  the  hotel  to  which  he  had  sent  his  luggage, 
and  on  arriving  in  Paris  she  decided  to  drive  there  'at 
once.  She  was  impatient  to  have  the  meeting  over,  and 
glad  that  Darrow  was  obliged  to  leave  her  at  the  sta 
tion  in  order  to  look  up  a  colleague  at  the  Embassy. 
She  dreaded  his  seeing  Owen  again,  and  yet  dared  not 
tell  him  so;  and  to  ensure  his  remaining  away  she  men 
tioned  an  urgent  engagement  with  her  dress-maker  and 
a  long  list  of  commissions  to  be  executed  for  Madame 
de  Chantelle. 

"I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  morning/'  she  said;  but 
he  replied  with  a  smile  that  he  would  certainly  find  time 
to  come  to  her  for  a  moment  on  his  way  back  from  meet 
ing  the  Ambassador;  and  when  he  had  put  her  in  a 
cab  he  leaned  through  the  window  to  press  his  lips  to 

hers. 

She  blushed  like  a  girl,  thinking,  half  vexed,  half 
happy:  "Yesterday  he  would  not  have  done  it  .  .  . " 
and  a  dozen  scarcely  definable  differences  in  his  look  and 
manner  seemed  all  at  once  to  be  summed  up  in  the  boy 
ish  act.  "After  all,  I'm  engaged  to  him,"  she  reflected, 
and  then  smiled  at  the  absurdity  of  the  word.  The  next 
instant,  with  a  pang  of  self-reproach,  she  remembered 
Sophy  Viner's  cry:  "I  knew  all  the  while  he  didn't 

[348] 


THE     REEF 


care  . 
mured 


"     "Poor  thing,  oh  poor  thing!'*  Anna  mur- 


At  Owen's  hotel  she  waited  in  a  tremor  while  the 
porter  went  in  search  of  him.  Word  was  presently 
brought  back  that  he  was  in  his  room  and  begged  her 
to  come  up,  and  as  she  crossed  the  hall  she  caught  sight 
of  his  portmanteaux  lying  on  the  floor,  already  labelled 
for  departure. 

Owen  sat  at  a  table  writing,  his  back  to  the  door ;  and 
when  he  stood  up  the  window  was  behind  him,  so  that, 
in  the  rainy  afternoon  light,  his  features  were  barely 
discernible. 

"Dearest — so  you're  really  off?"  she  said,  hesitating 
a  moment  on  the  threshold. 

He  pushed  a  chair  forward,  and  they  sat  down,  each 
waiting  for  the  other  to  speak.  Finally  she  put  some 
random  question  about  his  travelling-companion,  a  slow 
shy  meditative  youth  whom  he  had  once  or  twice  brought 
down  to  Givre.  She  reflected  that  it  was  natural  he 
should  have  given  this  uncommunicative  comrade  the 
preference  over  his  livelier  acquaintances,  and  aloud 
she  said:  "I'm  so  glad  Fred  Rempson  can  go  with 
you." 

Owen  answered  in  the  same  tone,  and  for  a  few  min 
utes  their  talk  dragged  itself  on  over  a  dry  waste  of 
common-places.  Anna  noticed  that,  though  ready 
enough  to  impart  his  own  plans,  Owen  studiously  ab 
stained  from  putting  any  questions  about  hers.  It  was 
evident  from  his  allusions  that  he  meant  to  be  away  for 
some  time,  and  he  presently  asked  her  if  she  would  give 

[349] 


THE     REEF 

instructions  about  packing  and  sending  after  him  some 
winter  clothes  he  had  left  at  Givre.  This  gave  her  the 
opportunity  to  say  that  she  expected  to  go  back  within 
a  day  or  two  and  would  attend  to  the  matter  as  soon  as 
she  returned.  She  added :  "I  came  up  this  morning  with 
George,  who  is  going  on  to  London  to-morrow,"  in 
tending,  by  the  use  of  Darrow's  Christian  name,  to  give 
Owen  the  chance  to  speak  of  her  marriage.  But  he  made 
no  comment,  and  she  continued  to  hear  the  name  sound 
ing  on  unfamiliarly  between  them. 

The  room  was  almost  dark,  and  she  finally  stood  up 
and  glanced  about  for  the  light-switch,  saying:  "I  can't 
see  you,  dear." 

"Oh,  don't — I  hate  the  light !"  Owen  exclaimed,  catch 
ing  her  by  the  wrist  and  pushing  her  back  into  her  seat. 
He  gave  a  nervous  laugh  and  added:  "I'm  half-blind 
with  neuralgia.  I  suppose  it's  this  beastly  rain." 

"Yes ;  it  will  do  you  good  to  get  down  to  Spain." 

She  asked  if  he  had  the  remedies  the  doctor  had  given 
him  for  a  previous  attack,  and  on  his  replying  that  he 
didn't  know  what  he'd  done  with  the  stuff,  she  sprang 
up,  offering  to  go  to  the  chemist's.  It  was  a  relief  to 
have  something  to  do  for  him,  and  she  knew  from  his 
"Oh,  thanks — would  you?"  that  it  was  a  relief  to  him 
to  have  a  pretext  for  not  detaining  her.  His  natural 
impulse  would  have  been  to  declare  that  he  didn't  want 
any  drugs,  and  would  be  all  right  in  no  time;  and  his 
acquiescence  showed  her  how  profoundly  he  felt  the  use- 
lessness  of  their  trying  to  prolong  their  talk.  His  face 
was  now  no  more  than  a  white  blur  in  the  dusk,  but  she 
felt  its  indistinctness  as  a  veil  drawn  over  aching  inten- 

[350] 


THE     REEF 

sities  of  expression.  "He  knows  ...  he  knows  ..." 
she  said  to  herself,  and  wondered  whether  the  truth  had 
been  revealed  to  him  by  some  corroborative  fact  or  by 
the  sheer  force  of  divination. 

He  had  risen  also,  and  was  clearly  waiting  for  her  to 
go,  and  she  turned  to  the  door,  saying:  "I'll  be  back 
in  a  moment." 

"Oh,  don't  come  up  again,  please  t"  He  paused,  em 
barrassed.  "I  mean — I  may  not  be  here.  I've  got  to 
go  and  pick  up  Rempson,  and  see  about  some  final  things 
with  him." 

She  stopped  on  the  threshold  with  a  sinking  heart.  He 
meant  this  to  be  their  leave-taking,  then — and  he  had  not 
even  asked  her  when  she  was  to  be  married,  or  spoken  of 
seeing  her  again  before  she  set  out  for  the  other  side  of 
the  world. 

"Owen !"  she  cried,  and  turned  back. 

He  stood  mutely  before  her  in  the  dimness. 

"You  haven't  told  me  how  long  you're  to  be  gone." 

"How  long?  Oh,  you  see  ...  that's  rather  vague 
...  I  hate  definite  dates,  you  know  ..." 

He  paused  and  she  saw  he  did  not  mean  to  help  her 
out.  She  tried  to  say  :  "You'll  be  here  for  my  wedding  ?" 
but  could  not  bring  the  words  to  her  lips.  Instead  she 
murmured :  "In  six  weeks  I  shall  be  going  too  ..." 
and  he  rejoined,  as  if  he  had  expected  the  announcement 
and  prepared  his  answer:  "Oh,  by  that  time,  very 
likely  ..." 

"At  any  rate,  I  won't  say  good-bye,"  she  stammered, 
feeling  the  tears  beneath  her  veil. 

"No,  no;  rather  not!"  he  declared;  but  he  made  no 

[35i] 


THE     REEF 

movement,  and  she  went  up  and  threw  her  arms  about 
him.  "You'll  write  me,  won't  you?" 

"Of  course,  of  course " 

Her  hands  slipped  down  into  his,  and  for  a  minute  they 
held  each  other  dumbly  in  the  darkness;  then  he  gave  a 
vague  laugh  and  said :  "It's  really  time  to  light  up."  He 
pressed  the  electric  button  with  one  hand  while  with  the 
other  he  opened  the  door;  and  she  passed  out  without 
daring  to  turn  back,  lest  the  light  on  his  face  should 
show  her  what  she  feared  to  see. 


XXXVIII 

ANNA  drove  to  the  chemist's  for  Owen's  remedy. 
On  the  way  she  stopped  her  cab  at  a  book-shop, 
and  emerged  from  it  laden  with  literature.  She  knew  what 
would  interest  Owen,  and  what  he  was  likely  to  have 
read,  and  she  had  made  her  choice  among  the  newest 
publications  with  the  promptness  of  a  discriminating 
reader.  But  on  the  way  back  to  the  hotel  she  was 
overcome  by  the  irony  of  adding  this  mental  panacea  to 
the  other.  There  was  something  grotesque  and  almost 
mocking  in  the  idea  of  offering  a  judicious  selection  of 
literature  to  a  man  setting  out  on  such  a  journey.  "He 
knows  ...  he  knows  ..."  she  kept  on  repeating ;  and 
giving  the  porter  the  parcel  from  the  chemist's  she  drove 
away  without  leaving  the  books. 

She  went  to  her  apartment,  whither  her  maid  had  pre 
ceded  her.  There  was  a  fire  in  the  drawing-room  and 
the  tea-table  stood  ready  by  the  hearth.  The  stormy  rain 

[352] 


THE     REEF 

beat  against  the  uncurtained  windows,  and  she  thought 
of  Owen,  who  would  soon  be  driving  through  it  to  the 
station,  alone  with  his  bitter  thoughts.  She  had  been 
proud  of  the  fact  that  he  had  always  sought  her  help 
in  difficult  hours;  and  now,  in  the  most  difficult  of  all, 
she  was  the  one  being  to  whom  he  could  not  turn.  Be 
tween  them,  henceforth,  there  would  always  be  the  wall 
of  an  insurmountable  silence  .  .  .  She  strained  her 
aching  thoughts  to  guess  how  the  truth  had  come  to 
him.  Had  he  seen  the  girl,  and  had  she  told  him?  In 
stinctively,  Anna  rejected  this  conjecture.  But  what  need 
was  there  of  assuming  an  explicit  statement,  when  every 
breath  they  had  drawn  for  the  last  weeks  had  been 
charged  with  the  immanent  secret?  As  she  looked  back 
over  the  days  since  Barrow's  first  arrival  at  Givre  she 
perceived  that  at  no  time  had  any  one  deliberately  spoken, 
or  anything  been  accidentally  disclosed.  The  truth  had 
come  to  light  by  the  force  of  its  irresistible  pressure; 
and  the  perception  gave  her  a  startled  sense  of  hidden 
powers,  of  a  chaos  of  attractions  and  repulsions  far  be 
neath  the  ordered  surfaces  of  intercourse.  She  looked 
back  with  melancholy  derision  on  her  old  conception  of 
life,  as  a  kind  of  well-lit  and  well-policed  suburb  to  dark 
places  one  need  never  know  about.  Here  they  were,  these 
dark  places,  in  her  own  bosom,  and  henceforth  she  would  i 
always  have  to  traverse  them  to  reach  the  beings  she 
loved  best! 

She  was  still  sitting  beside  the  untouched  tea-table 
when  she  heard  Darrow's  voice  in  the  hall.  She  started 
up,  saying  to  herself:  "I  must  tell  him  that  Owen 
knows  ..."  but  when  the  door  opened  and  she 

[353] 


THE     REEF 

saw  his  face,  still  lit  by  the  same  smile  of  boyish  triumph, 
she  felt  anew  the  uselessness  of  speaking  .  .  .  Had 
he  ever  supposed  that  Owen  would  not  know  ?  Probably, 
from  the  height  of  his  greater  experience,  he  had  seen 
long  since  that  all  that  happened  was  inevitable ;  and  the 
thought  of  it,  at  any  rate,  was  clearly  not  weighing  on 
him  now. 

He  was  already  dressed  for  the  evening,  and  as  he 
came  toward  her  he  said :  "The  Ambassador's  booked  for 
an  official  dinner  and  I'm  free  after  all.  Where  shall 
we  dine?" 

Anna  had  pictured  herself  sitting  alone  all  the  evening 
with  her  wretched  thoughts,  and  the  fact  of  having  to 
put  them  out  of  her  mind  for  the  next  few  hours  gave 
her  an  immediate  sensation  of  relief.  Already  her 
pulses  were  dancing  to  the  tune  of  Darrow's,  and  as  they 
smiled  at  each  other  she  thought:  "Nothing  can  ever 
change  the  fact  that  I  belong  to  him." 

"Where  shall  we  dine?"  he  repeated  gaily,  and  she 
named  a  well-known  restaurant  for  which  she  had  once 
heard  him  express  a  preference.  But  as  she  did  so  she 
fancied  she  saw  a  shadow  on  his  face,  and  instantly  she 
said  to  herself :  "It  was  there  he  went  with  her !" 

"Oh,  no,  not  there,  after  all !"  she  interrupted  herself  ; 
and  now  she  was  sure  his  colour  deepened. 

"Where  shall  it  be,  then?" 

She  noticed  that  he  did  not  ask  the  reason  of  her 
change,  and  this  convinced  her  that  she  had  guessed  the 
truth,  and  that  he  knew  she  had  guessed  it.  "He  will 
always  know  what  I  am  thinking,  and  he  will  never  dare 
to  ask  me,"  she  thought ;  and  she  saw  between  them  the 

[354] 


THE     REEF 

same  insurmountable  wall  of  silence  as  between  herself 
and  Owen,  a  wall  of  glass  through  which  they  could 
watch  each  other's  faintest  motions  but  which  no  sound 
could  ever  traverse  .  .  . 

They  drove  to  a  restaurant  on  the  Boulevard,  and 
there,  in  their  intimate  corner  of  the  serried  scene,  the 
sense  of  what  was  unspoken  between  them  gradually 
ceased  to  oppress  her.  He  looked  so  light-hearted  and 
handsome,  so  ingenuously  proud  of  her,  so  openly  happy 
at  being  with  her,  that  no  other  fact  could  seem  real 
in  his  presence.  He  had  learned  that  the  Ambassador 
was  to  spend  two  days  in  Paris,  and  he*  had  reason  to 
hope  that  in  consequence  his  own  departure  for  London 
would  be  deferred.  He  was  exhilarated  by  the  pros 
pect  of  being  with  Anna  for  a  few  hours  longer,  and  she 
did  not  ask  herself  if  his  exhilaration  were  a  sign  of 
insensibility,  for  she  was  too  conscious  of  his  power  of 
swaying  her  moods  not  to  be  secretly  proud  of  affecting 
his. 

They  lingered  for  some  time  over  the  fruit  and  coffee, 
and  when  they  rose  to  go  Darrow  suggested  that,  if  she 
felt  disposed  for  the  play,  they  were  not  too  late  for  the 
second  part  of  the  programme  at  one  of  the  smaller 
theatres. 

His  mention  of  the  hour  recalled  Owen  to  her  thoughts. 
She  saw  his  train  rushing  southward  through  the  storm, 
and,  in  a  corner  of  the  swaying  compartment,  his  face, 
white  and  indistinct  as  it  had  loomed  on  her  in  the  rainy 
twilight.  It  was  horrible  to  be  thus  perpetually  paying 
for  her  happiness ! 

Darrow  had  called  for  a  theatrical  journal,  and  he 

[355] 


THE     REEF 

presently  looked  up  from  it  to  say:  "I  hear  the  second 
play  at  the  Athenee  is  amusing." 

It  was  on  Anna's  lips  to  acquiesce;  but  as  she  was 
about  to  speak  she  wondered  if  it  were  not  at  the  Athenee 
that  Owen  had  seen  Darrow  with  Sophy  Viner.  She 
was  not  sure  he  had  even  mentioned  the  theatre,  but 
the  mere  possibility  was  enough  to  darken  her  sky.  It 
was  hateful  to  her  to  think  of  accompanying  Darrow 
to  places  where  the  girl  had  been  with  him.  She 
tried  to  reason  away  this  scruple,  she  even  reminded 
herself  with  a  bitter  irony  that  whenever  she  was  in 
Darrow's  arms  she  was  where  the  girl  had  been  before 
her — but  she  could  not  shake  off  her  superstitious  dread 
of  being  with  him  in  any  of  the  scenes  of  the  Parisian 
episode. 

She  replied  that  she  was  too  tired  for  the  play,  and 
they  drove  back  to  her  apartment.  At  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  she  half-turned  to  .wish  him  good  night,  but  he 
appeared  not  to  notice  her  gesture  and  followed  her  up 
to  her  door. 

"This  is  ever  so  much  better  than  the  theatre,"  he  said 
as  they  entered  the  drawing-room. 

She  had  crossed  the  room  and  was  bending  over  the 
hearth  to  light  the  fire.  She  knew  he  was  approaching 
her,  and  that  in  a  moment  he  would  have  drawn  the 
cloak  from  her  shoulders  and  laid  his  lips  on  her  neck, 
just  below  the  gathered-up  hair.  These  privileges  were 
his  and,  however  deferently  and  tenderly  he  claimed 
them,  the  joyous  ease  of  his  manner  marked  a  difference 
and  proclaimed  a  right. 

"After  the  theatre  they   came  home  like  this,"   she 

[356] 


THE     REEF 

thought;  and  at  the  same  instant  she  felt  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders  and  shrank  back. 

"Don't — oh,  don't !"  she  cried,  drawing  her  cloak  about 
her.  She  saw  from  his  astonished  stare  that  her  face 
must  be  quivering  with  pain. 

"Anna!    What  on  earth  is  the  matter?" 

"Owen  knows !"  she  broke  out,  with  a  confused  desire 
to  justify  herself. 

Darrow's  countenance  .changed.  "Did  he  tell  you  so? 
What  did  he  say?" 

"Nothing !    I  knew  it  from  the  things  he  didn't  say." 

"You  had  a  talk  with  him  this  afternoon?" 

"Yes :  for  a  few  minutes.  I  could  see  he  didn't  want 
me  to  stay." 

She  had  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  sat  there  huddled, 
still  holding  her  cloak  about  her  shoulders. 

Darrow  did  not  dispute  her  assumption,  and  she  no 
ticed  that  he  expressed  no  surprise.  He  sat  down  at  a 
little  distance  from  her,  turning  about  in  his  ringers  the 
cigar-case  he  had  drawn  out  as  they  came  in.  At  length 
he  said:  "Had  he  seen  Miss  Viner?" 

She  shrank  from  the  sound  of  the  name.  "No  .  .  . 
I  don't  think  so  ...  I'm  sure  he  hadn't  ..." 

They  remained  silent,  looking  away  from  one  another. 
Finally  Darrow  stood  up  and  took  a  few  steps  across  the 
room.  He  came  back  and  paused  before  her,  his  eyes  on 
her  face. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  tell  me  what  you  mean  to  do." 

She  raised  her  head  and  gave  him  back  his  look. 
"Nothing  I  do  can  help  Owen !" 

"No ;  but  things  can't  go  on  like  this."    He  paused,  as 

[357] 


THE     REEF 

if  to  measure  his  words.  "I  fill  you  with  aversion,"  he 
exclaimed. 

She  started  up,  half-sobbing.    "No — oh,  no !" 

"Poor  child — you  can't  see  your  face !" 

She  lifted  her  hands  as  if  to  hide  it,  and  turning  away 
from  him  bowed  her  head  upon  the  mantel-shelf.  She 
felt  that  he  was  standing  a  little  way  behind  her,  but 
he  made  no  attempt  to  touch  her  or  come  nearer. 

"I  know  you've  felt  as  I've  felt,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice — "that  we  belong  to  each  other  and  that  nothing 
can  alter  that.  But  other  thoughts  come,  and  you  can't 
banish  them.  Whenever  you  see  me  you  remember  .  .  . 
you  associate  me  with  things  you  abhor  .  .  .  You've  been 
generous — immeasurably.  You've  given  me  all  the 
chances  a  woman  could ;  but  if  it's  only  made  you  suffer, 
what's  the  use?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  tear-stained  face.  "It  hasn't 
only  done  that." 

"Oh,  no !  I  know  .  .  .  There've  been  moments  ..." 
He  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  "They'll  be 
with  me  as  long  as  I  live.  But  I  can't  see  you  paying 
such  a  price  for  them.  I'm  not  worth  what  I'm  costing 
you." 

She  continued  to  gaze  at  him  through  tear-dilated 
eyes ;  and  suddenly  she  flung  out  the  question :  "Wasn't 
it  the  Athenee  you  took  her  to  that  evening?" 

"Anna— Anna !" 

"Yes ;  I  want  to  know  now :  to  know  everything.  Per 
haps  that  will  make  me  forget.  I  ought  to  have  made 
you  tell  me  before.  Wherever  we  go,  I  imagine  you've 
been  there  with  her  ...  I  see  you  together.  I  want  to 

[358] 


THE     REEF 

know  how  it  began,  where  you  went,  why  you  left  her 
...  I  can't  go  on  in  this  darkness  any  longer !" 

She  did  not  know  what  had  prompted  her  passionate 
outburst,  but  already  she  felt  lighter,  freer,  as  if  at  last 
the  evil  spell  were  broken.  "I  want  to  know  every 
thing,"  she  repeated.  "It's  the  only  way  to  make  me 
forget." 

After  she  had  ceased  speaking  Darrow  remained  where 
he  was,  his  arms  folded,  his  eyes  lowered,  immovable. 
She  waited,  her  gaze  on  his  face. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  tell  me?" 

"No." 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  temples.  "You  won't  ?  Why 
not?" 

"If  I  did,  do  you  suppose  you'd  forget  that?" 

"Oh — "  she  moaned,  and  turned  away  from  him. 

"You  see  it's  impossible,"  he  went  on.  "I've  done  a 
thing  I  loathe,  and  to  atone  for  it  you  ask  me  to  do 
another.  What  sort  of  satisfaction  would  that  give  you  ? 
It  would  put  something  irremediable  between  us." 

She  leaned  her  elbow  against  the  mantel-shelf  and  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands.  She  had  the  sense  that  she  was 
vainly  throwing  away  her  last  hope  of  happiness,  yet 
she  could  do  nothing,  think  of  nothing,  to  save  it.  The 
conjecture  flashed  through  her:  "Should  I  be  at  peace  if 
I  gave  him  up?"  and  she  remembered  the  desolation  of 
the  days  after  she  had  sent  him  away,  and  understood 
that  that  hope  was  vain.  The  tears  welled  through  her 
lids  and  ran  slowly  down  between  her  fingers. 

"Good-bye,"  she  heard  him  say,  and  his  footsteps 
turned  to  the  door. 

[359] 


THE     REEF 

She  tried  to  raise  her  head,  but  the  weight  of  her  des 
pair  bowed  it  down.  She  said  to  herself:  "This  is 
the  end  ...  he  won't  try  to  appeal  to  me  again  ..." 
and  she  remained  in  a  sort  of  tranced  rigidity,  perceiving 
without  feeling  the  fateful  lapse  of  the  seconds.  Then 
the  cords  that  bound  her  seemed  to  snap,  and  she  lifted 
her  head  and  saw  him  going. 

"Why,  he's  mine — he's  mine!  He's  no  one  else's!" 
His  face  was  turned  to  her  and  the  look  in  his  eyes  swept 
away  all  her  terrors.  She  no  longer  understood  what 
had  prompted  her  senseless  outcry;  and  the  mortal 
sweetness  of  loving  him  became  again  the  one  real  fact 
in  the  world. 

XXXIX 

ANNA,  the  next  day,  woke  to  a  humiliated  memory 
of  the  previous  evening. 

Darrow  had  been  right  in  saying  that  their  sacrifice 
would  benefit  no  one;  yet  she  seemed  dimly  to  discern 
that  there  were  obligations  not  to  be  tested  by  that  stand 
ard.  She  owed  it,  at  any  rate,  as  much  to  his  pride  as  to 
hers  to  abstain  from  the  repetition  of  such  scenes ;  and 
she  had  learned  that  it  was  beyond  her  power  to  do  so 
while  they  were  together.  Yet  when  he  had  given  her 
the  chance  to  free  herself,  everything  had  vanished  from 
her  mind  but  the  blind  fear  of  losing  him ;  and  she  saw 
that  he  and  she  were  as  profoundly  and  inextricably 
bound  together  as  two  trees  with  interwoven  roots. 

For  a  long  time  she  brooded  on  her  plight,  vaguely 
conscious  that  the  only  escape  from  it  must  come  from 

[360] 


THE     REEF 

some  external  chance.  And  slowly  the  occasion  shaped 
itself  in  her  mind.  It  was  Sophy  Viner  only  who  could 
save  her — Sophy  Viner  only  who  could  give  her  back  her 
lost  serenity.  She  would  seek  the  girl  out  and  tell  her 
that  she  had  given  Darrow  up;  and  that  step  once 
taken  there  would  be  no  retracing  it,  and  she  would  per 
force  have  to  go  forward  alone. 

Any  pretext  for  action  was  a  kind  of  anodyne,  and 
she  despatched  her  maid  to  the  Farlows'  with  a  note 
asking  if  Miss  Viner  would  receive  her.  There  was 
a  long  delay  before  the  maid  returned,  and  when  at  last 
she  appeared  it  was  with  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  an 
address  was  written,  and  a  verbal  message  to  the  ef 
fect  that  Miss  Viner  had  left  some  days  previously,  and 
was  staying  with  her  sister  in  a  hotel  near  the  Place  de 
1'Etoile.  The  maid  added  that  Mrs.  Farlow,  on  the  plea 
that  Miss  Viner's  plans  were  uncertain,  had  at  first  made 
some  difficulty  about  giving  this  information ;  and  Anna 
guessed  that  the  girl  had  left  her  friends'  roof,  and  in 
structed  them  to  withhold  her  address,  with  the  object 
of  avoiding  Owen.  "She's  kept  faith  with  herself  and 
I  haven't,"  Anna  mused;  and  the  thought  was  a  fresh 
incentive  to  action. 

Darrow  had  announced  his  intention  of  coming  soon 
after  luncheon,  and  the  morning  was  already  so  far  ad 
vanced  that  Anna,  still  mistrustful  of  her  strength,  de 
cided  to  drive  immediately  to  the  address  Mrs.  Farlow 
had  given.  On  the  way  there  she  tried  to  recall  what 
she  had  heard  of  Sophy  Viner's  sister,  but  beyond  the 
girl's  enthusiastic  report  of  the  absent  Laura's  loveliness 
she  could  remember  only  certain  vague  allusions  of  Mrs. 

[361] 


THE     REEF 

Farlow's  to  her  artistic  endowments  and  matrimonial 
vicissitudes.  Darrow  had  mentioned  her  but  once,  and  in 
the  briefest  terms,  as  having  apparently  very  little  con 
cern  for  Sophy's  welfare,  and  being,  at  any  rate,  too 
geographically  remote  to  give  her  any  practical  support; 
and  Anna  wondered  what  chance  had  brought  her  to  her 
sister's  side  at  this  conjunction.  Mrs.  Farlow  had  spoken 
of  her  as  a  celebrity  (in  what  line  Anna  failed  to  recall)  ; 
but  Mrs.  Farlow's  celebrities  were  legion,  and  the  name 
on  the  slip  of  paper — Mrs.  McTarvie-Birch — did  not  seem 
to  have  any  definite  association  with  fame. 

While  Anna  waited  in  the  dingy  vestibule  of  the  Hotel 
Chicago  she  had  so  distinct  a  vision  of  what  she  meant 
to  say  to  Sophy  Viner  that  the  girl  seemed  already  to 
be  before  her ;  and  her  heart  dropped  from  all  the  height 
of  its  courage  when  the  porter,  after  a  long  delay,  re 
turned  with  the  announcement  that  Miss  Viner  was  no 
longer  in  the  hotel.  Anna,  doubtful  if  she  understood, 
asked  if  he  merely  meant  that  the  young  lady  was  out 
at  the  moment;  but  he  replied  that  she  had  gone  away 
the  day  before.  Beyond  this  he  had  no  information  to 
impart,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  Anna  sent  him 
back  to  enquire  if  Mrs.  McTarvie-Birch  would  receive 
her.  She  reflected  that  Sophy  had  probably  pledged  her 
sister  to  the  same  secrecy  as  Mrs.  Farlow,  and  that  a 
personal  appeal  to  Mrs.  Birch  might  lead  to  less  nega 
tive  results. 

There  was  another  long  interval  of  suspense  before 
the  porter  reappeared  with  an  affirmative  answer;  and 
a  third  while  an  exiguous  and  hesitating  lift  bore  her 
up  past  a  succession  of  shabby  landings. 

[362] 


THE     REEF 

When  the  last  was  reached,  and  her  guide  had  directed 
her  down  a  winding  passage  that  smelt  of  sea-going  lug 
gage,  she  found  herself  before  a  door  through  which  a 
strong  odour  of  tobacco  reached  her  simultaneously  with 
the  sounds  of  a  suppressed  altercation.  Her  knock  was 
followed  by  a  silence,  and  after  a  minute  or  two  the  door 
was  opened  by  a  handsome  young  man  whose  ruffled  hair 
and  general  air  of  creased  disorder  led  her  to  conclude 
that  he  had  just  risen  from  a  long-limbed  sprawl  on  a 
sofa  strewn  with  tumbled  cushions.  This  sofa,  and  a 
grand  piano  bearing  a  basket  of  faded  roses,  a  biscuit- 
tin  *and  a  devastated  breakfast  tray,  almost  rilled  the 
narrow  sitting-room,  in  the  remaining  corner  of  which 
another  man,  short,  swarthy  and  humble,  sat  examining 
the  lining  of  his  hat. 

Anna  paused  in  doubt ;  but  on  her  naming  Mrs.  Birch 
the  young  man  politely  invited  her  to  enter,  at  the  same 
time  casting  an  impatient  glance  at  the  mute  spectator 
in  the  background. 

The  latter,  raising  his  eyes,  which  were  round  and 
bulging,  fixed  them,  not  on  the  young  man  .but  on  Anna, 
whom,  for  a  moment,  he  scrutinized  as  searchingly  as  the 
interior  of  his  hat.  Under  his  gaze  she  had  the  sense  of 
being  minutely  catalogued  and  valued;  and  the  impres 
sion,  when  he  finally  rose  and  moved  toward  the  door,  of 
having  been  accepted  as  a  better  guarantee  than  he  had 
had  any  reason  to  hope  for.  On  the  threshold  his  glance 
crossed  that  of  the  young  man  in  an  exchange  of  in 
telligence  as  full  as  it  was  rapid;  and  this  brief  scene 
left  Anna  so  oddly  enlightened  that  she  felt  no  surprise 
when  her  companion,  pushing  an  arm-chair  forward, 

84  1 363 1 


THE     REEF 

sociably  asked  her  if  she  wouldn't  have  a  cigarette.  Her 
polite  refusal  provoked  the  remark  that  he  would,  if  she'd 
no  objection;  and  while  he  groped  for  matches  in  his 
loose  pockets,  and  behind  the  photographs  and  letters 
crowding  the  narrow  mantel-shelf,  she  ventured  another 
enquiry  for  Mrs.  Birch. 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  smiled;  "I  think  the  masseur's 
with  her."  He  spoke  in  a  smooth  denationalized  Eng 
lish,  which,  like  the  look  in  his  long-lashed  eyes  and  the 
promptness  of  his  charming  smile,  suggested  a  long 
training  in  all  the  arts  of  expediency.  Having  finally 
discovered  a  match-box  on  the  floor  beside  the  sofa,  he 
lit  his  cigarette  and  dropped  back  among  the  cushions; 
and  on  Anna's  remarking  that  she  was  sorry  to  disturb 
Mrs.  Birch  he  replied  that  that  was  all  right,  and  that 
she  always  kept  everybody  waiting. 

After  this,  through  the  haze  of  his  perpetually  renewed 
cigarettes,  they  continued  to  chat  for  some  time  of  in 
different  topics;  but  when  at  last  Anna  again  suggested 
the  possibility  of  her  seeing  Mrs.  Birch  he  rose  from  his 
corner  with  a  slight  shrug,  and  murmuring :  "She's  per 
fectly  hopeless,"  lounged  off  through  an  inner  door. 

Anna  was  still  wondering  when  and  in  what  con 
junction  of  circumstances  the  much-married  Laura  had 
acquired  a  partner  so  conspicuous  for  his  personal 
charms,  when  the  young  man  returned  to  announce: 
"She  says  it's  all  right,  if  you  don't  mind  seeing  her  in 
bed." 

He  drew  aside  to  let  Anna  pass,  and  she  found  herself 
in  a  dim  untidy  scented  room,  with  a  pink  curtain  pinned 
across  its  single  window,  and  a  lady  with  a  great  deal  of 

[364] 


THE     REEF 

fair  hair  and  uncovered  neck  smiling  at  her  from  a  pink 
bed  on  which  an  immense  powder-puff  trailed. 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you?  He  costs  such  a  frightful 
lot  that  I  can't  afford  to  send  him  off,"  Mrs.  Birch  ex 
plained,  extending  a  thickly-ringed  hand  to  Anna,  and 
leaving  her  in  doubt  as  to  whether  the  person  alluded  to 
were  her  masseur  or  her  husband.  Before  a  reply  was 
possible  there  was  a  convulsive  stir  beneath  the  pink 
expanse,  and  something  that  resembled  another  powder- 
puff  hurled  itself  at  Anna  with  a  volley  of  sounds  like  the 
popping  of  Lilliputian  champagne  corks.  Mrs.  Birch, 
flinging  herself  forward,  gasped  out :  "If  you'd  just  give 
him  a  caramel  .  .  .  there,  in  that  box  on  the  dressing- 
table  .  .  .  it's  the  only  earthly  thing  to  stop  him  ..." 
and  when  Anna  had  proffered  this  sop  to  her  assailant, 
and  he  had  withdrawn  with  it  beneath  the  bedspread,  his 
mistress  sank  back  with  a  laugh. 

"Isn't  he  a  beauty  ?  The  Prince  gave  him  to  me  down 
at  Nice  the  other  day — but  he's  perfectly  awful,"  she 
confessed,  beaming  intimately  on  her  visitor.  In  the 
roseate  penumbra  of  the  bed-curtains  she  presented  to 
Anna's  startled  gaze  an  odd  chromo-like  resemblance  to 
Sophy  Viner,  or  a  suggestion,  rather,  of  what  Sophy 
Viner  might,  with  the  years  and  in  spite  of  the  powder- 
puff,  become.  Larger,  blonder,  heavier-featured,  she  yet 
had  glances  and  movements  that  disturbingly  suggested 
what  was  freshest  and  most  engaging  in  the  girl ;  and 
as  she  stretched  her  bare  plump  arm  across  the  bed  she 
seemed  to  be  pulling  back  the  veil  from  dingy  distances 
of  family  history. 

"Do  sit  down,  if  there's  a  place  to  sit  on,"  she  cor- 

[365] 


THE     REEF 

dially  advised ;  adding,  as  Anna  took  the  edge  of  a  chair 
hung  with  miscellaneous  raiment:  "My  singing  takes  so 
much  time  that  I  don't  get  a  chance  to  walk  the  fat  off — 
that's  the  worst  of  being  an  artist." 

Anna  murmured  an  assent.  "I  hope  it  hasn't  incon 
venienced  you  to  see  me;  I  told  Mr.  Birch " 

"Mr.  who?"  the  recumbent  beauty  asked;  and  then: 
"Oh,  Jimmy!"  she  faintly  laughed,  as  if  more  for  her 
own  enlightenment  than  Anna's. 

The  latter  continued  eagerly:  "I  understand  from 
Mrs.  Farlow  that  your  sister  was  with  you,  and  I  ven 
tured  to  come  up  because  I  wanted  to  ask  you  when  I 
should  have  a  chance  of  finding  her." 

Mrs.  McTarvie-Birch  threw  back  her  head  with  a  long 
stare.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  the  idiot  at  the  door  didn't 
tell  you?  Sophy  went  away  last  night." 

"Last  night?"  Anna  echoed.  A  sudden  terror  had 
possessed  her.  Could  it  be  that  the  girl  had  tricked  them 
all  and  gone  with  Owen?  The  idea  was  incredible,  yet 
it  took  such  hold  of  her  that  she  could  hardly  steady  her 
lips  to  say:  "The  porter  did  tell  me,  but  I  thought  per 
haps  he  was  mistaken.  Mrs.  Farlow  seemed  to  think  that 
I  should  find  her  here." 

"It  was  all  so  sudden  that  I  don't  suppose  she  had 
time  to  let  the  Farlows  know.  She  didn't  get  Mrs.  Mur- 
rett's  wire  till  yesterday,  and  she  just  pitched  her  things 
into  a  trunk  and  rushed " 

"Mrs.  Murrett?" 

"Why,  yes.  Sophy's  gone  to  India  with  Mrs.  Mur 
rett;  they're  to  meet  at  Brindisi,"  Sophy's  sister  said 
with  a  calm  smile. 

[366] 


THE     REEF 

Anna  sat  motionless,  gazing  at  the  disordered  room, 
the  pink  bed,  the  trivial  face  among  the  pillows. 

Mrs.  McTarvie-Birch  pursued:  "They  had  a  fearful 
kick-up  last  spring — I  daresay  you  knew  about  it — but  I 
told  Sophy  she'd  better  lump  it,  as  long  as  the  old  woman 
was  willing  to  ...  As  an  artist,  of  course,  it's  perfectly 
impossible  for  me  to  have  her  with  me  ...  " 

"Of  course,"  Anna  mechanically  assented. 

Through  the  confused  pain  of  her  thoughts  she  was 
hardly  aware  that  Mrs.  Birch's  explanations  were  still 
continuing.  "Naturally  I  didn't  altogether  approve  of 
her  going  back  to  that  beast  of  a  woman.  I  said  all  I 
could  ...  I  told  her  she  was  a  fool  to  chuck  up  such  a 
place  as  yours.  But  Sophy's  restless — always  was — and 
she's  taken  it  into  her  head  she'd  rather  travel  ..." 

Anna  rose  from  her  seat,  groping  for  some  formula  of 
leave-taking.  The  pushing  back  of  her  chair  roused  the 
white  dog's  smouldering  animosity,  and  he  drowned  his 
mistress's  further  confidences  in  another  outburst  of  hys 
terics.  Through  the  tumult  Anna  signed  an  inaudible 
farewell,  and  Mrs.  Birch,  having  momentarily  succeeded 
in  suppressing  her  pet  under  a  pillow,  called  out:  "Do 
come  again !  I'd  love  to  sing  to  you." 

Anna  murmured  a  word  of  thanks  and  turned  to  the 
door.  As  she  opened  it  she  heard  her  hostess  crying 
after  her:  "Jimmy!  Do  you  hear  me?  Jimmy  Brance!" 
and  then,  there  being  no  response  from  the  person  sum 
moned:  "Do  tell  him  he  must  go  and  call  the  lift  for 
you!" 

THE    END. 


I 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to 


T***"*  « 


NOV 


-S3 


9||gffiff  LD 


I5Nov'64BE 


t& 


6ECI  01964 


MAY     5  1969  8  7. 


LOAN  DEPT. 


LD  21A-50m-9,'58 
(6889slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


VB  69816 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


